


The Science of You & Me

by waywardmelody



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy 15, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Angst, Blindness, Character Study, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, I'm so sorry, Ignis POV, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Slow Burn, m/m - Freeform, spoilers for the whole game, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardmelody/pseuds/waywardmelody
Summary: Science is verifiable. It is understandable. Even when the answer you seek is disproved utterly, there are assurances in place, lines etched into the sand. There is procedure. There is order. None of these exist within the constructs of love.





	1. Chapter 1

I.

The first time he sees Gladiolus Amicitia he is ten years old. It is a matter of court and all those who serve the crown fill the space just below a raised dais where King Regis sits. The monarch looks bored. Ignis idly wonders if Noctis will one day wear the same, bland expression and wave at people in the same way. Will they only see a symbol upon a golden throne?

To the kings left stands Clarus Amicitia, his shield. The bodyguard looks much older than his years, and even in his youth Ignis knows that premature aging occurs for a myriad of reasons, up to and including the burden of everyday life. The king turns to his shield and smiles. Ignis smiles in response, though no one is looking at him. He is simply happy to see his ruler happy. After all, a king should be merry if his subjects are meant to be. 

Clarus says something and the kings features school, the sunny disposition buried beneath kinglier raiment in a single moment. Clarus turns from his king to clap the shoulder of a boy at his left, a familiar gesture, vaguely amicable. When Ignis narrows his eyes to look closer, he sees not amity, but instead resemblance. There is shared height, a looseness of limb that has them both standing with their feet shoulder length apart, a similar expression of bemusement at the activities of the common people and the court.

There are differences, too. Gladiolus is dark while his father is fair. His father is slimmer, lither, whereas Gladiolus has corded muscle at the neck already. Someday he will be impressively muscular. For now, he stands upon the precipice, and Ignis finds that he is staring.

He feels a tug at his sleeve, and turns in its direction. Noctis. Sticky fingers at the ready of Ignis' cuff make him frown down at his prince, who pulls for a second time, desirous of attention. "What are you looking at," the young monarch asks. 

Ignis turns his eyes back to the dais to find Gladiolus an unmoving statue; exactly where Ignis' gaze had left him. "Your shield, highness," he answers, simple and true.

Noctis' face turns quizzical. "Why?"

Ignis shrugs. "I don't know."

 

II.

At thirteen, Ignis' body changes. What was a gangly awareness fills out to sinewy muscle, and lean control. He carries Noctis' school bags, full of books the young prince would prefer not to read, he cooks for him; little sweet treats that he hopes inspire the palate. He cleans his room and he tries to ignore that his body wars at his mind for the first time in his life. 

He reads with a voracious appetite but in the small hours of the night he turns books aside as learns his body with gentle, unsure touches. They leave him trembling in his own bed. He falls asleep with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and sense of satiation that has nothing to do with food. He is aghast at this body’s weakness, a miasmatic haze of want and need. But it thrills him, too.

For reasons he does not understand Gladiolus becomes something of a star in his dreams. Just watching the man during the waking hours has become something of a sport. Years since the day on the dais had seen the prince’s shield grow tall and indeed as muscular as Ignis had thought he'd might someday be. He is, Ignis begins to understand, an object of fantasy. It helps that they are near each other, crossing social circles, but also far enough away that it does not become problematic. Ignis is meant for strategy and mindfulness and Gladiolus is the physical manifestation of battle. They are two sides of the same coin. They both carry a duty to care for the prince. Ignis does not question his devotion, nor does he questions Gladiolus’ if only become Noctis comes back from training sessions held with the other man fixed with a permanent, petulant scowl. This is the same expression Noct often gives him, so it heartens him to see it used for someone else.

He does not speak to Gladiolus; he makes it a point not to do so. He listens to him laugh in halls and watches his step and realizes lust for what it is. It is nothing more, he reasons, for to have any feelings he would have to share words, share something. But his head feels heavy with thoughts of the shield and once the night song of cicadas only just drowns out the panting breaths of his release as his grasps himself in hand and uses the image of a boy he'd never spoken to as fodder for nocturnal emission. He curses himself afterwards. He dreams of amber eyes. He tries not to think on it.

 

III.

For a great many years, he does not think on it. By sixteen Ignis has moved up in court. He has moved beyond his studies, the most advanced in his class. Eventually it allows him access to the King’s Council. When he first takes his chair, it is only so he can take down reports and deliver them faithfully to Noctis, who could not have cared less what his father and any dignitary might say. Soon, he becomes emboldened. He begins to recognize that the many years of study and constant attention to the plight of the peoples of Lucis had imbued him with good sense alongside his intelligence. When he speaks then people begin to listen, important people whose long, grey faces look on him not with suspicion or derision but respect. They heed his advice. Ignis’ heart has never felt so full.

After long days of learning and council meetings, when day is birthing into night, he collects Noctis. He spends what little time is left to him ensuring that the future king cares for himself. He builds upon the curriculum Noctis is taught; he fills in the gaps of Lucian history for him. He spends hours slaving over a Tenebraen treats hoping to coax Noctis’ smile. He realizes that this, too, makes him happy. Noctis becomes not only a king but someone dear altogether and for no other reason than that he is himself. Ignis feels contentment in his every fiber. He realizes that he has built himself the beginnings of a life, it’s woven tapestry rich and warm. He watches his prince, happy to have woven some of the threads of his life in with the younger mans, however small those stitches happen to be.

Noctis is pushing broccoli across his plate, as Ignis watches. This time it seems as if he is lost in thought rather than purposely trying Ignis’ patience, so he says nothing. He’s washing dishes when Noctis’ bright blue eyes fix on him.

 “Oh hey, my dad sent you a message.”

Ignis’ brows inch towards his hairline. He pauses in the act of movement and his heartbeat quickens in a way reserved solely for times in which he is unprepared for what passes; a seldom occurrence. It’s not often he speaks directly to the King. It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare. And he’s never before used Noctis as a go between. This is uncommon and thus unsettling.

A handful of moments pass, enough to sets Ignis’ teeth on edge. It’s a long enough space of time in which Noctis says nothing that allows Ignis a tad more irritability than he usually allows when he replies.

“Are you going to share this knowledge, or do you mean to keep it until my hair begins to grey?”

The prince’s eyes sparkle with mirth, and he pauses to stab a spear of broccoli and chew it loudly, biding his time, before slipping out of the chair to retrieve his bag. When he hands over an envelope from inside it to Ignis, it’s with a shrug.  “He didn’t tell me what it was. But I’m pretty sure if you were in trouble he’d have sent Clarus or Drautos, not me. Also, it wouldn’t be in a letter. Probably”.

It’s a gilded little thing, paper so thin it can be seen through and light as a feather. He regards the words on the page curiously. He reads them over twice.

“You okay there, Specs?”

He looks up at Noctis and sighs. “You father is…displeased,” he begins. “He believes that I am not fully meeting expectations here with you.”

Noctis makes to grab the letter and snatches it away. It’s a childish move, churlish to a fault, but he knows Noct only does it because he’s offended on Ignis’ behalf. He sputters and makes to take the letter back but Noctis has already absconded with it and bounded towards the couch with all the grace of a monster.

The prince snorts. “That’s not what is says, Ignis,” He shakes his head, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “It just says he wants you to weapon train and exercise more. You like being healthy. What’s the problem? You’ve just have to get out there more. That’s it, that’s all it says.”

Ignis doesn’t explain that the letter comes off as something of a chastisement. Though it doesn’t explicitly state a failure, it’s implied that he’s not doing enough. The sting of that it is nothing next to the realization that he agrees. Of course he should be battle ready. He need not be hardened but as advisor to the future king, he should be capable, fully capable – mind, body and soul.

“You’re crazy, you know that,” Noctis continues. “So you come with me to training. Let Gladio beat up on you for a change. What’s the big deal?”

Ignis nods his assent. It’s not until quite later that he realizes to what he’s acquiesced.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I truly value the time anyone has taken to read, review and leave kudos. And I kindly solicit more, if you are so inclined.

IV.

Ignis made no move to learn how to fight, at least not initially. He focused on preparation, instead. He read on meditation and how it made the body disciplined and in complete congruence with the mind. He learned preservation techniques, transmitted through forms and diagrams that were meant to stimulate reserved individuals into practical self-defense. He learnt of counterweights and balances and how to outmaneuver a larger opponent. He twisted his body and learned the power of visualization. The books told that if a student were diligent in practice soon defensive movement would become natural and occur in a reflex-like manner. He recognized it as a systemic practice that must be used alongside weapons and hand to hand training in order to be effective. When he was sure he had adopted these concepts wholly, he only then made arrangements to follow Noctis to one of his sessions.

That morning he practices poses in front of a mirror. It’s with sweet satisfaction that he begins to lightly sweat, having just barely exerted himself. Though his body is less prone to physical exertion than that of mental gymnastics, he feels ready. As with most things, Noctis adopts an air of indifference to the whole affair. When he follows at his heel a halted shrug is the only indication that Noctis even knows he’s being followed rather than left at the door of the training rooms. His monarch inclines his neck, and he follows, quietly, as he always does.

The training rooms are nothing like Ignis thought they would be. He’d visited their entrance often enough but the door to the room might as well have been one to another realm for all his familiarity with it. The interior was large, expansive even, brightly polished marble floors seemingly at odds with intent of the place. There could be slippage, his logical brain supplied, but he tossed it aside in favor of looking and cataloguing more thoroughly. Raised parapets cordoned off small rings, likely meant for sparring. There were large, carved pillars depicting the Six that looked to be holding up the heavens. The last things he noticed were the multitude of weapons, each glistening, polished to high glean. It was a world to which he was unaccustomed, but it was one that man at the center of the room reveled in.

Gladiolus Amicitia was a large man. He was made of perfectly defined muscle, moreover he was tall. If he cut an imposing figure when Ignis had seen him, in passing, at rest, it was nothing to the visage he gave now. Already rough with exertion, there was no telling how long the other man at been at practice. He hoisted a two handed weapon as if it weighed no more than a thimble, cutting the air with an elegant turn of wrist and shoulder. He jumped aside, loping, thrusting the weapon towards both himself and Noctis, flinging the point to the ground. It was an impressive display, if in Ignis’ opinion, a little theatrical.

Noctis stood at his right, watching him. He seemed to be waiting for Ignis to say something or to make himself known. His contentment for watching and penchant for silent evaluation had left both he and the future king standing, just before his shield, mute. 

“Yo’,” Gladio said in greeting. “You come here to watch or to practice?”

A fixed gaze saw Gladio ignore him entirely, eyes on their prince instead. 

“If I said to watch, would you let me skip out early?”

The laughter that peeled wasn’t musical, nor was it beautiful. It was not lyrical, but gruff in a way that people seldom were, without guard or pretense.

“Hell no,” came the response, followed by a particularly long suffering sigh from Noctis.

“If you’re here to work,” he continued. “Let’s work. But lose the spare.”

It took Ignis far longer than it should have to realize that the spare in question was him and he blustered at the implication of being less than. There was a hierarchy that set the prince above him, surely, but Gladiolus was not so high and far above him that he was deserving of being put aside. More vexing still, he hadn’t done anything to warrant the casual dismissal besides standing a little too long, saying nothing. He managed to keep his features cool and his voice steady. It was a point of pride that very few people could get underneath his skin and he absolutely refused to let someone he hardly had occasion to speak to the luxury. 

“Excuse me,” he began, taking Noctis’ bag from him, and depositing it the far corner of the training floor. The quiet is a palpable thing and he notices that Noct is watching the two of them with equal interest, like it’s sport. Ignis knows he’s playing a waiting game, wanting to see how this will play out, and he’ll be of no help to him. “But to whom are you speaking?”

That takes Gladio aback, his eyes narrowing as he again picks up the sword. “It wasn’t to you,” he said flippantly. 

Ignis removed his glasses, wiping the lenses; a way to bide his time, thinking what his next move  
might be. He’s not entirely sure how this happened. The intent was to come and ask for assistance in training himself. He needs to become surer in his duties towards his prince. The intent was to learn how to fight, not merely theoretically; he had that covered, but truly and with the assistance of sharpened steel and one more experienced than he. He’s not sure why the other man is terse but he is quick witted enough to respond to his glibness in kind. 

He stops weighing his options and decides at once and all of a sudden. He crosses the room slowly, making his way towards a cache of weapons. This one has small armaments, silvery, glittery little things that might be at home in the heel of someone’s boot, concealed. He picks up the largest one, still quite small, and sets the pommel upon his palm as if to weigh it.

Across the room, he hears a huff, not quite a laugh, of amusement. “You gonna fight me with that?”

Ignis smiles, all teeth. “Do you usually, automatically assume that people intend on trying to fight you simply because they show interest in a dagger? Just how many men have you annoyed?”

Blessedly, Noctis does say something, then. It’s a rescue of sorts, and he diffuses the situation with aplomb. He could make a politician if he wanted to, Ignis thinks, and though he is proud of his prince, he is too distracted to think on it for very long. Noctis is quick to explain the King’s request and that he had invited Ignis to spar with them because there was no one better than Gladio. Having his ego stroked seemed to coax out the intended effect as Gladio now seemed fine with the idea of them all partaking. Though Ignis is disinclined to join the fray; he does so anyway. 

The bespectacled man pushes his body to its limits, if only to prove that he can be strong and is worthy. He doesn’t understand why being dismissed out of hand or being pushed aside needles him, and yet it does. Gladiolus pulls no punches and some hit him square in the chest, others land hard on his shoulders, and one, knocks his knees right out from under him. That Noctis suffers the same fate doesn’t make him feel much better but it does have him considering what analgesics might be best to soothe them both later. The task of learning to defend is arduous.  


“A lot,” Gladio said, as he concluded their session. “You asked me how many people I pissed off,” Gladio continued. “It’s a lot.”  


Ignis stares up at the celling, having lost his footing. “Well,” he said from the flat of this back. “They say that self-awareness is important in a man.”  


Gladiolus smiled, feral and wolfish. “They do say that, yeah.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. It really does the soul good!

(Come talk to me on on [tumblr](http://ofthekingsglaive.tumblr.com/), if you've a mind)

 

V.

Time passes and gradually Ignis forgets what it is to be uncomfortable around Gladiolus. He’s a good trainer and an excellent swordsman. For his size, he’s surprisingly agile, and he moves with an alacrity and measure that were it not so frequent in its occurrence, might have startled him.

Noct smiles through his sessions more often with Ignis around. He has noticed that, too. He’s less prone to skipping them and though complaint is as natural to Noctis as breathing, it comes less frequently. Ignis can’t be sure if it’s because it gives the young prince a sort of joy to watch someone else besides him be knocked down over and over and over again, or if it’s his company. When he’s being generous to himself he imagines that it’s the latter but either way the result is the same.

Ignis has never been anything but slim. He’s lissome, always had been, with a wicked metabolism that had left him bereft of muscle definition for many years. Months of working towards fitness has made him more muscular; quicker, as well as stronger. He has mass now which is of some interest to him when he one day catches his reflection in the mirror. He’s losing the look of a boy himself, features as well as body giving way to something more mature, more masculine.  In training he puts that muscle to good use. Gladio’s grace and power are still somewhat insurmountable and difficult to beat, but he is speedy. His response time is sharp. When he lands a blow, a shallow thwack at Gladiolus’ ribcage, three months into training, he grins in his triumph.

“It was one time, “Gladio grumbles afterwards, whether consciously or not, rubbing at his side.

Ignis smiles. “It was merely the _first_ time. There will be others. And I intend to be insufferable for a day, at least”.

They exist is a universe of companionable exchange. They circle the sun that is Noctis like planets. Ignis finds it’s nice to consider that he is not alone in hoping to shape Noctis for his later role in life. It heartens him to know he is not the only advisor who straddles the thin line that is both friend and guide.  They are the same in as much as they are different.  It’s a happy feeling but one altogether confusing. Ignis likes to think he and Gladio are friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, but when such feelings are still tenuous and unsure he finds it’s frustrating.

Ignis is sitting in one of the royal libraries, reading. It’s a day free of council meetings. Noctis doesn’t have class, so he’s off with Prompto, playing at mischievousness. As he flips a page, he thinks on Prompto, still unsure what he truly thinks of him. On the one hand, the prince having a trusted confidant was a good thing. That he had somewhere and someone to go to whose sole purpose and concern was his wellbeing and not that of Lucis was a weight off Ignis’ shoulders. However hard he tried and however much he wanted ever to be Noctis’ friend, duty and friendship often worked at crosses purposes. He could not always be both to him, however much he wanted to.

On the other hand, Prompto was reckless. He was loud and though not abrasive, he lacked filter. Royals were, by their very nature, meant to be the picture of decorum.  They should say the right thing. They should _do_ the right things. Extended periods spent between Noctis and Prompto left Noctis more prone to laziness and more vocal is his derision towards anything he didn’t wish to do. It was a problem. He pondered it more often than he ought and he was so lost in his thoughts he did not even hear Gladio coming until he was already there, hovering.

“For a large man, you can be quite quiet when you want to be,” he retorts.

“Whatcha’ you reading?”

Ignis blinks, somewhat surprised at the continued intrusion and at the speaker. This part of the library is largely ignored. It’s piled high with dusty tomes about Lucian history, about the line of kings streaming back to the original Regis Lucis Caelum. It’s not exactly light reading but it is interesting. It’s also not an area people flocked to and he’s slightly perturbed at having been disturbed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Gladio shifts, taking up residence on the edge of the chair that Ignis is occupying, unconcerned about invading his personal space. He does it like it’s easy, like it’s normal to sit so close, like it’s normal to talk above hushed tones in a place meant for quiet. He almost bristles but when looking up at the other man he sees a challenge in his gaze that leaves him silent.

“It’s a library,” Gladio explains. “There are books here. “He shrugs, and that casual elegance rolls off him in waves, sure as the spool of his shoulders. Ignis is torn between between being annoyed and in awe. “And I like to read.”

Ignis can’t help the hint of incredulousness that creeps into his voice. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Gladio learns away and crosses his arms across his chest. Ignis recognizes he’s made an error somewhere, a false computation because the easy body language that Gladio approached with, the one that didn’t mind being close to Ignis, was gradually leaning away and closing off. His expression was darker, too.

“My apologies, Gladiolus, I didn’t mean to imply…”

“-Yeah, you did,” he interrupts.

Ignis shoves his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. It’s an anxious gesture, one he adopts when he is nervous.

“You’re right. And that was uncharitable of me, and unfair to you. “Ignis leans forward, chasing the space that Gladio put between them, trying to regain the ease he’d somehow put aside through prejudice. “I apologize.”

“Forget it.”

Gladio moves even further away at Ignis’ attempt to reestablish contact. The hand with which he holds a book is white at the knuckle. There Ignis sees his opening. “What are _you_ reading?”

His can see the cogs in the brain of the other man turning, a weighing of choices before making a decision. This is something that Ignis does often enough and he recognizes the heaviness of choice, so he doesn’t push. His patience is rewarded by a lessening in Gladio’s defensive posture.

“The Turquoise Accordo.”

“Isn’t that the erotic fiction?”

Gladio grins. “Damn, Iggy, I didn’t know you had it in you”.

And just like that the animosity is gone as the grin shifts to become predatory. Ignis feels warm. He feels color spread over his cheeks but is powerless to stop it. Is it embarrassment that he recognized the name of the book or secondhand embarrassment that Gladio is reading it? There is a marker in the center pages meaning Gladio has been reading it for a while. Was he enjoying it? He stammers. “Well…I…you see…”

“Are you blushing?”

It comes to his attention that he might have learned how to be more comfortable in Gladio’s presence but he wasn’t beyond putting his foot in his mouth, making assumptions about the other man or becoming a flushed, inarticulate heap who had to toy with the spine of a book to keep busy.

“Indeed,” he says. It’s only because he cannot think of anything else to say.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard one for me. I hope it's alright. As always, I value your feedback. In fact, it makes my day. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive . I'd love to talk to any of you about these wonderful, lovely jerks.

VI.

Life passed by uneventfully for some time. It was a credit to Lucian peace that days transitioned to weeks and even into months mostly without his noticing. The time came, however, when Ignis listened more attentively at council meetings. The threat of Niflheim had become too large to ignore, even in their meetings. It had been nearly thirty years since all the countries of Solheim save Lucis had been absorbed into the empire. The citizens, and indeed even Ignis, who ever had the forethought to worry about any impending possible doom, lived in a bubble of obliviousness bolstered by the magical barrier which separated them from their enemies. Things had only recently begun to fall apart. The Accordo whose neutrality gave them some semblance of autonomy was reaching out to the crown. They could see the writing on the wall, too; no hope unless Lucis were to stand more staunchly against the imperials.

The deployed Kingsglaive came back fewer and fewer with each dispatch. There was unrest amongst the King’s privy council. In the midst of it was King Regis, his back ramrod straight, which belied the clear toll the sustaining of the barrier and the continued political machinations were putting on him. Ignis was in awe of his grace under pressure but there was profound sadness at having to watch him struggle. He looked to Noctis, sure the prince would say something, but he never did. Not even when the king began to use a walking stick, not even when his light brown hair went grey in a matter of weeks. After one particularly arduous evening, Ignis stopped to bow to the king, when before he seldom sought to trouble him even with acts of fealty. He wanted to make known his deference if only because he, like the other advisors, had little to offer but platitudes about the world eventually righting itself. Ignis could read the future in the heaviness of the king’s posture and it was not a future he was like to enjoy. Worry and despair fell heavy even on him and he did not have to wear the crown.

Ignis dedicated himself to reading with greater fervor, still, wanting to be of more use. What was before a pastime became an obsession. He read extensively on Fenestala Manor, home to the Oracle lineage of House Fleuret. He read anything he could come upon, even trite propaganda on the production of magitek soldiers. He read until his eyelids were heavy with sleep, threatening to close. He read while he bit at his lips, worrying at them absently until the copper tang of blood pierced his tongue. When he was not reading he was training alongside Noctis and Gladio. When he was not doing that, he was caring for Noctis. Days were only long enough for him to complete his work and he was only able to do that through the practical application of caffeine. Ignis became so reliant upon it that he ordered cases of Ebony to be delivered to his front door. It was uncommon to find him without one on hand. Noctis proclaimed he had a sickness and though loath to admit it, Ignis knew he was right.

The days he spent in the library, laborious though the task of learning everything he possibly could about Eos was, were the small respites he allowed himself. He gleaned information on the aftermath of the Great War of Old, some two thousand years ago, spanning the ages until the now. When he felt he could, he shared his findings with Noctis, but his liege was seldom interested about those who’d come before.  Learning was a gift, he told him, and knowledge made one powerful, but Noctis would none. His stubbornness left much to be desired but it was also curiously endearing. So he kept it to himself, picked up another volume, and read anew.

He found he was not alone in the library, some days. The relief to be found cracking the spines of old books was somewhat more pleasurable when Gladio happened upon him. He took up residence beside him, often saying nothing, and Ignis became profoundly grateful for his presence though he never said so. It became a study in contrast, how initially he’d found his presence unwanted and cumbersome to the feeling of rightness and naturalness that occurred so many months after the first time they’d come upon each other.

“Falling asleep again,” Gladio offered, giving him a not too gentle nudge before collecting a full can of Ebony and pressing it into Ignis’ hands. He could tell from Gladio’s expression that the other man didn’t quite approve of his habit but he was blessedly quiet and free of judgement, for once. From the corner of her little desk, the librarian gave the pair of them a fixed glare. “Guess she’s still mad about you bringing coffee in here.”

“Sounds like a waste of time, as it’s unlikely to change.” Ignis stifled a yawn, reaching for another book which Gladio got to first, smacking his hand away. He picked a random page, beginning to read, unprompted.

“O'er rotted soil, under blighted sky. A dread plague the wicked has wrought. In the light of the Gods, sword-sworn at his side 'gainst the dark, the king's battle is fought. From the heavens high, to the blessed below, shines the beam of a peace long besought…” Gladio’s voice trailed off, leaving the poetic text unfinished, averting his eyes to send a questioning glance in Ignis’ direction.

“That’s pretty heavy stuff you got there, Iggy,” he bid after a moment.

There was something in the basso hum of the other man’s voice, the rich cadence that Ignis found nearly as interesting as the old verses. He hummed his approval. “If you would?”

“You want me to keep going?”

“Just so.”

Gladio resumed his reading, syllables falling like waterfalls off his tongue in a timbre both melodic and low. “…'long live the line, and this stone divine, for the night when all comes to naught…”

Ignis didn’t get to the end of the verse. He didn’t get to ask Gladio when he’d first heard of the Infernian or when he’d first read the Hexatheon, for surely he must have, because he read the passage so eloquently. He does not ask these things because he drifted. Sleep claimed him, unbidden. He fell against the bulk of Gladios’s chest only to find a welcome embrace. He knew this only because he woke some time later, still pillowed against him, a steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his ear.

“Why…why didn’t you wake me?”

He shrugged; a bare, minimal thing. It hardly upset this strange predicament Ignis found himself in. He was still pressed to the other man’s chest, peering up through his lashes, not immediately able to move, frozen by shock. It was far too familiar a thing and once he realized this he pulled away. Still, the contact was longer than propriety would have allowed.

“Seems like you could use the rest,” Gladio placated. “I didn’t mind.”

There is a sense of incredulity at his admission. If someone had fallen asleep on top of Ignis he was sure he would have minded. But Gladio looked at him with such open honesty and without complaint that he knew his words to be true, despite the fact he didn’t understand the reasoning behind them. He shifted in the chair, moving away from the beating heart whose metronome, rataplan beat had kept him still and lulled him into sleep.

“On your behalf, _I_ mind the inconvenience,” Ignis heard himself say. He’s proud that though he’s upended that he sounded controlled. “Consider this a formal request of apology.”

“Gods, you’re a hard case. Astrals forbid you let anyone do anything nice for you. Not sure why I bother trying.”

He’s torn between letting the comment lie, slight irritation piqued at the assumption that Gladio might know what was better for Ignis than he himself knew, or responding with curiosity instead. In the end, the latter won out. “Why do you?”

Gladio scratched at the back of his neck and smiled. This man, so terribly uncomplicated but so very confusing to Ignis, grinned, and Ignis found he was responding in kind. If plants bent to the sun, unconscious in their need and devotion, so too did he bend towards the warmth of something brighter than himself. When they were together he felt bolder, fresher and freer. He challenged him and it was as uncomplicated as breathing to occupy the same space as the future king’s shield. If they parried with swords or with words, it was tantamount to the same thing. His face was warm from having laid it across the broader man’s chest, his cheeks burning from the breadth of his responding smile.

“I’m a hard case, too,” Gladio answered. “Guess that’s why were friends.”

There was a feeling, bourgeoning deep in his chest that Ignis could not hope to name. It was as unfamiliar and anathema to him as ignorance. But he wanted to keep it, whether it was because it momentarily turned him from thoughts on an uncertain future, or for some other reason, he desperately wanted to keep it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never written text messaging into a fic before. I apologize if it’s a little awkward. 
> 
> Reviews and kudos fuel my soul. I’m sending a special thank you out to everyone who has taken the time to write something kind.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive and I’d simply love to talk to you all about this Gladnis hell/heaven we’ve found ourselves in.

VII.

Ignis was used to being on his own. Taken from his parents at a tender age he was groomed for service. Lucis had seen something in him at seven, spirited him away and groomed him with texts and facts and figures. He took to them with ease and they became passions. He seldom thought on what he might have missed, having a home; his experiences altogether different from his peers when it came to familial love. He never thought of _who_ he might have been, as he was contented with himself on the whole. What little he knew of his past came from his uncle, but even that relationship was strained under the thick blanket of duty and fealty and obligation. They did not touch except for a brush of hands while passing papers between their hands. There was no demonstrativeness. He had not thought he was missing anything, truly, but in the weeks since he’d accidently fallen asleep on Gladiouls’ chest he wondered if he might have missed something in the lack of practical touches not to mentioned touches that were done with kindness being their only goal. He tested his boundaries by touching Noctis’ shoulder, one lazy Sunday morning when his prince looked as likely to fall as to stand. He had sleep in his eyes and was reaching blindly for a cup of coffee that Ignis had poured for himself, not for him. “Are you alright, Noct?”

The question was innocuous, as was the tentative touch at the younger man’s shoulder. When he didn’t pull away Ignis ran a thumb over the seam of his shirt, an absent comfort. When Noctis didn’t pull away at that and instead launched into a diatribe about meetings and classwork and his father’s expectation, Ignis felt sated in his knowledge that touch was allowed, moreover, it didn’t seem to bother Noctis in the least.

It came to his attention then that the closest thing he had to what more conventional people would have called a friend was the prince. He’d thought of them as friends always when he’d examined their place in each other’s lives. He felt the swell of affection there, but he knew that Noctis hadn’t initially chosen him in much the same way he had not chosen Noctis. It was through Shiva’s gentle grace that they grew to friendship and he was happy for his feelings even as he was unsure of Noctis’.

“Highness?”

“Hmmmm,” Noct asked, purloining his coffee cup to overturn multiple packets of sugar into it, before loudly slurping its contents.

“We’re friends aren’t we, you and I?”

He looked at him as if he had a second head or had sprouted a third eye. He answered in a way which was dismissive and concrete, both at once. “Um, yeah.”

“It’s good to know.”

Ignis washed dishes. He made himself a new cup of coffee. He ironed Noctis’ school coat to ready it for Monday. He could feel the prince’s eyes on him but he didn’t say anything more and Ignis didn’t ask him for any further confirmation. It was clear, clear through feeling and even now verbal confirmation that though Noctis and he had passed into each other’s paths in a way not of their own making, that they stayed because they wanted to. He’d never thought to question it, had never even wanted to, before Gladio had become a fixture in his life.

Gladio never made demand of him, besides his presence to spar. Gladio moved into his path of his own volition. Gladio called him friend when Ignis had never sought to inquire if he was one to the person to whom he was closest, before. It was a strange realization to come to in one’s late teens, that friendship was an entirely new territory. Now, he knew he had Noctis by choice rather than solely by circumstance and Gladio had declared his presence boldly. It was an entirely new sensation to feel wanted rather than just respected or viewed with gratefulness. With his back turned to Noctis, he smiled. The smile soon became a grin, sharp with the presence of happiness. He tucked his chin into his shoulder, hiding his expression, for he was more comfortable in keeping these tangled feelings private, at least for the time being.

VIII.

There was a logic in dealing with politicians and kings and even princes that left Ignis somewhat bereft in learning how to deal with those with whom he was meant to associate on a more personal level. He has always disliked phone conversations. They were either too brief to encompass the need for serious exchange or they were too lengthy for a simple check in. When he’d thought to express this thought aloud to Noctis, it was Prompto who answered.

“So you text instead,” he suggested.

“Come again?”

Prompto beamed, never concerned by Ignis’ concision or, in this case, inexperience. “You text,” he said again.

“Specs doesn’t text,” Noctis dismissed. “It’s not proper.” He elbowed Prompto in the side. “Hey, that rhymed.”

Prompto seemed undeterred, practically crawling over Noctis’ lap to get to Ignis, the younger man ignoring the rude noise the prince gave at being used as a launching pad.

“You can be as proper as you want,” Prompto said brightly. He offered Ignis his phone, pulling up text conversations, most of which seemed over decked with smiley faces more so than words. “Or as silly.”

Ignis offered a shake of the head. “I’m familiar with the concept, Prompto. I simply never saw the point of it. Though, I suppose for the sake of brevity, the application is sound enough.”

He passed Prompto his phone back, with a murmured thanks before taking his own in hand, beginning to peck at the lettered buttons.

From the sofa, Noctis’ air of boredom grew slightly more interested. “Who are you texting anyway? Is it business?”

“Yes,” Ignis said without hesitation. “None of yours.” With a raised brow, he excused himself to the hall to the sound of Prompto’s laughter. Noctis had set a perfect trap for himself and then promptly fell right into it. Leaving the room, Ignis admitted to himself that perhaps he had in fact judged Prompto too harshly. He was indeed without filter but the sunny disposition was infectious even when he himself was at his surliest.

**Message:** **Ignis Scientia to** **Gladiolus Amicitia 14:27pm**

[Good afternoon. This is Ignis Scientia. I wanted to apologize for having missed our last few sessions. I’ve been quite busy with the council and I’m afraid that our standing date has fallen by the wayside. I do hope that Noctis hasn’t been too much trouble. Or that you’ll judge me too harshly for having missed them.]

He nodded at what he wrote and pressed send before overthinking the entire process. The message was true; he had been overwhelmed. What was left unsaid was that the lack of sparring had set him on edge. The act of physical battle had provided Ignis with an outlet aside from drinking another can of ebony. He found that he missed it. He also felt curiously sorry for having omitted contacting Gladio about missing the sessions.

**Message:** **Gladiolus Amicitia to** **Ignis Scientia 14:30pm**

[ It’s cool. Figured you were busy or something.]

Though the reply was quick and Ignis wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting there was a stab of irritation at the succinctness of Gladio’s reply. When he typed his in response, he put more pressure than was entirely necessary on the keys, his brow set to a furrowed and his gaze narrowed to a slim slit through which the keyboard could scarcely be seen.

**Message:** **Ignis Scientia to** **Gladiolus Amicitia 14:32pm**

[ At any rate, it was rude. I do attempt to avoid discourtesy whenever possible.]

**Message:** **Gladiolus Amicitia to** **Ignis Scientia 14:33pm**

[ We’re good. And you don’t gotta tell me who this is, y’know. Your name is in my phone. Guess I should be glad you put down a book long enough to pick up a phone.]

**Message: Ignis Scientia to Gladiolus Amicitia 14:35pm**

[ I was being polite but feeling considerably less polite now. And not entirely sure why I keep company with you.]

**Message:** **Gladiolus Amicitia to** **Ignis Scientia 14:36pm**

[Because I’m awesome.]

**Message: Ignis Scientia to Gladiolus Amicitia 14:37pm**

[You’ve an overinflated sense of your own importance.]

**Message:** **Gladiolus Amicitia to** **Ignis Scientia 14:37pm**

[You coming next week?]

**Message: Ignis Scientia to Gladiolus Amicitia 14:39pm**

[Very little could keep me from it.]

He tucked his phone away to the sound of Noctis’ bellow of complaint coming from the other room. He wasn’t sure what it was about, or what caused Prompto’s subsequent peel of laughter but he was sure he’d see soon enough. The weight of his phone felt like a tether, a solid weight in his pocket which grounded his step as he returned to his charge and his friend. In his mind he rehashed the short text conversation between himself and Gladiolus.  Speaking with him over the phone would have felt awkward, ignoring him even worse, since it was with some surprise that Ignis realized that he missed the man not just the sparring sessions. But a text message had assuaged both nervousness and the need for contact. He made a mental note to thank Prompto later, outside of Noctis’ earshot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward little chapter is awkward but I swear it has a point. 
> 
> Your feedback has really kept my enthusiasm up because, as I've said, I can be very critical of my writing. I especially appreciate you all taking time to let me know that this is working for you.
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr. You can find me @ ofthekingsglaive

IX.

He wasn’t entirely sure how his apartment had been bombarded, but it had. Gladio, Prompto and Noctis had clamored through the door, loud and disruptive as behemoths in their sudden appearance. They were all supposed to train today, the three of them together. The idea was to meet at Ignis’ and all drive together with Noctis at the wheel under Ignis’ supervision, preparing the prince for his driving test. But when Noctis had announced upon arrival that he was hungry, Ignis found he was preparing lunch for the entire group.

They spread across his apartment, seeping into the furniture. Unlike the prince’s quarters, Ignis’ own were modest. He had a sparse living room with a cream colored sofa, monochromatic pillows which were tossed across the surface in form rather than function. He had a side table and a coffee table, little more than slabs of deep charcoal granite. Reports were piled high in an orderly fashion on both surfaces. There was a tall, standing lamp constructed of brass and Galdin seashells, but little else. The room more austere than warm, but it was functional, and served Ignis’ needs well enough.

There was an incongruence to looking into his living space and finding it colorful and alive with movement, rather than static. He chopped sweet onions in the kitchen, curling his fingers under to avoid cutting himself and kept to the task of creating a dish. He could not help peering out into the fray that was his home, lived in for the moment by someone other than himself. Noctis was on the floor, head back against the couch. Prompto was standing on the center cushion with his camera pressed close to his face, the click-clack of photos being taken  loud even over the sizzling in the pan in front of him. Gladio was sprawled out over the remaining area, his feet on the table, aside the reports. Ignis frowned.

“Prompto, the sofa isn’t to be stood on,” he called. “And my table is not your foot rest, Gladiolus.”

“Told you he’d be watching,” Noctis said, bored. “Ignis notices everything.”

He shook his head, immersing himself once more in the task at hand. He took the idea of being seen as one who saw everything, could pick apart a situation and collect the nuances of a given moment as a compliment, but he didn’t need to say so. Instead, he contented himself with storing that fact away; a private pat on the back. He liked that about himself and Noctis needed that now. When he was king those qualities would be of even greater use.

“What smells so good?”

Ignis started, a small twitch at being caught off guard by Gladiolus’ sudden appearance in his kitchen. How he managed to get up and move quietly over hard wood floors to startle him was of interest to Ignis, but not enough to ask. This was not the first time the man’s quiet stillness surprised him, and he doubted it would be the last. A small part of Ignis believed he did this on purpose to elicit a reaction.

“You kicked me off the sofa, I had to go somewhere,” he said, in way of explanation.

“I did not kick off my sofa, I merely suggested the place for your feet was not my table. Your feet are well acquainted with the floor, as I recall. You use them to walk. Placing them on the floor rather than my table requires only the use of courtesy.”

He feigned a tense expression, but it didn’t last long. He was finding it easier day by day to keep his face impassive and open.

“Curry,” he explained. “I had some spices delivered. I figured I’d try them out, a new recipe.”

“I can taste test for you.”

Gladio was warm at his side, watching, looking; at him, at the kitchen, at the food. He seemed interested in it all and for a moment an irrational feeling overtook him. He had to check on Noctis and Prompto in the other room. Nothing untoward was going on. Gladio stood at his side, nothing more, and yet, the intimacy of closeness sped his heart. It was much like that day in the library but in a way more personal still. This was his home and Gladio was in it, a hairbreadth away, and it set his heart hammering so loudly he was sure Gladio could hear it. It didn’t feel the same with Noctis and Prompto. That felt odd, not unwelcome, but not the same. This felt close  undefinable in a way. A quick glance in the direction of the prince and his best friend showed no attention was being paid to them. Ignis was unsure if that was a good or a bad thing.

“I use whole spices, first” he explained, trying to drown out the sound of his heart beating. “Dry roast them first to bring forth the flavor. Then, after, grind them down to powder. It’s all a balance, you see, how fine and how coarsely you grind it depends on the application.”

Gladio moved behind him, his tallness allowing him the opportunity to see over Ignis’ shoulder. This was somehow worse. He swallowed hard, his speech undeterred for want of something to do as he’d stilled his action when Gladio had moved. “The…whole spices are fried. Each one on its own before being set aside. They’ll form the base, later.”

A shift felt his back touch something warm, solid, undeniably Gladio. He was so near, pressed against the line of his shoulders. Ignis struggled to parse his emotions and thoughts. He long ago realized that he lusted after Gladiolus, had done since he was thirteen. That had been easy to ignore, in that when the time came that his physical needs required satisfying, he’d call upon an image and let it overwhelm his senses. But that was not so visceral a thing, to imagine a look and a look alone. This Gladio was more difficult to ignore. The Gladio he _knew_ carried the scent of new leather, the quick wittedness of a poet, the soft humor of a comedy, and an awesome strength that thought nothing of a friend curling against his chest to sleep, who didn’t think twice to hoist a sword taller than he was high in the air in offense. Ignis twisted, craning his neck to look at the man behind him. “Must you stand so close,” he asked, haltingly.

“I making you nervous?”

It was hard to come to an answer. The truth was that yes, unquestionably, Gladio made him nervous. But to admit to that would be to lose something. He was still tentative in sharing his thoughts and feelings outside of strategy. It made you vulnerable, a thing that Ignis had never ever wanted to be. His eyes searched for an answer in the other man’s eyes, instead, but he was as unconcerned and unmoving as Titan upholding the disc. If their situations were reversed, Gladio would have had no trouble with forming a response. As it was, he was patient in awaiting Ignis’ answer, not helping him to come to one.

A sudden crash from the other room sent Ignis bolting. The flight response already primed, he beat Gladio to the other room easily. On the sofa sat Noctis, covered in ebony, and Prompto, eyes comically large, next to a can that looked to have exploded.

“He dared me to shake it up,” Prompto cried, hands up in surrender.

Ignis tried to be angry at having seen that his couch was covered in as much liquid as was the prince, but he was still so upended that all he could manage was to offer Noctis some clean clothing and a bath.

Thirty minutes later saw a soaking wet Noctis come from out of the shower appearing every inch a drowned animal. “I think I broke your shower.”

Thirty minutes after that Gladiolus had managed to stop water pouring from an area of the shower from which water was never meant to pour. It was indeed broken. All thoughts of nervousness and confusion were lost to the quick work of laying towels over every surface of Ignis’ bathroom and the sound of a contrite Noctis’ murmured apologies.

In the other room, the curry spices, forgotten, had burned. The mess of epic proportions sent all three scurrying from his apartment shortly after.

“The training house has showers, if you need em’,” Gladio, the last to leave, offered, before he shut the door. By then he’d chosen to put thoughts of winsome uncomfortableness aside. It wasn’t so dear a dismissal, because he found that thoughts of Gladio showed up unbidden more and more often. This was going to be a lot of trouble, he thought, but whether the trouble was his ruined apartment or Gladiolus remained to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no beta. It's probably loaded with mistakes. Do you want to be my beta? *chibi eyes*


	7. Chapter 7

X.

For three days, Ignis languished in a land in which there were no showers or baths in his apartment. He spent long stretches of time at his sink, using it a wash basin to clean off every inch of his skin. He’d also used Noctis’ shower, but he disliked inconveniencing the prince; though Noct was quick to point out that he was the one who’d broken  _his_  shower in the first place.  

“How long until it’s fixed,” he inquired of a plumber. He crossed his arms over his chest, occupying the space between the doorframe and the whole of the room.  

“Gotta get a part from Hammerhead,” he drawled, unconcerned, fiddling with a wrench.“Then I gotta put that part somewhere in these gears, here, and then put the whole thing back together.”

“And, the process of getting this part, and affixing it to the right part, and then putting that right part in the right place, should take approximately how long?”

The plumber scratched his head. “Dunno, I gotta get a part from Hammerhead.”

This sort of circular logic gave Ignis a headache. He left the man his key and allowed him to do his work while he set about to doing his. The space between his brows hummed and throbbed.

The day that followed was long. He found the minutiae of council meetings less interesting than usual. Proclamations for determining the specification and design for Insomnia’s new bank notes were hardly revelatory. Watching grown men bicker about the depiction of what king or deity should adorn each of these notes, was even less so.

Chatter avoided all notion of Niflheim and exchanged talk of threats for that of charter amendments on landscaping institutes, and for the establishment of a royal college for the sole benefit of potential ophthalmologists. As much as Ignis valued the clarity his spectacles gave him, he found the thought of allotting crown funds to such an idea ludicrous, and said as much. The king passed the amendment anyway. He bit his tongue to keep from sighing.

He felt an itching at his skin, a stretch of uncleanliness that was distractingly disconcerting. He wondered if he could send away to Hammerhead himself for the part that was needed for the shower, if he could expedite the process. His mind was occupied with thoughts on his own cleanliness when the King’s voice cut through his reverie decisively.

 “…Ignis, your thoughts?”

 “I…majesty…” his eyes were wide, caught at having paid less attention that he ought to have, and all for want of simple water spraying from a hose.

“Your thoughts,” the King continued. “On the welfare reform and work programs proposed by the solicitors.”

Ignis thanked whatever God was on his side that he had done extensive reading on the subject of refugees pouring in from the cities on the fringes of Insomnia. He spoke passionately and eloquently, and murmured assent soon chased away the embarrassment of having been caught unawares in the first place.  He promised himself a shower, to scrub his body and to scrub his brain free of the distraction after the conclusion of the council. Gladio had helpfully offered the training room showers for his use. It was a good plan, he reasoned. A solid plan, indeed.

Night saw Ignis walking towards the training rooms. The area was usually quiet but for the faint clash of swords behind heavy, wooden doors but in the eerie calm of night it was more so. There was no one around. He felt himself relax in increments. Social interaction could be taxing at the best of times, but Ignis felt the council had become something of a minefield in recent weeks. Either the council was atwitter with reports on losses, or they feigned ignorance to speak instead on proposals so daft that their mere existence felt like a joke. He longed for a bath, to let the heat of warm water seep into the muscles of his back. He longed for the relaxation that inevitably followed such an endeavor, his physical body forcing his mind to stop working if just for the time it took to become clean. He walked quickly, dress shoes squeaking slightly as they slid across the polished marble floor.

Above him, the open rotunda which usually warmed the floor and bathed the cordoned off sections of the training grounds in sunlight, was awash instead with moon glow. He hesitated for a moment, taking in the tall pillars and the room when it was pale and cold. The silence of the room was inimical without Noctis’ complaining or Gladio’s calling him forward to meet his blade. It was a strange notion to consider that before, Ignis would have found the idea of working alone more appealing than with others. But things had changed recently. He was more comfortable with the idea of being with others, selective though he was in choosing his company. He felt a part of something that wasn’t connected to the crown, a precarious sort of brotherhood that gave his life more meaning.

He was distracted from his reverie by the sound of faraway water. Had he stopped and considered what it meant, he might not have followed the sound. It parted the silence, and ever curious, he wanted to seek the source of the sound. In the back of a set of short hallways was a door of obscured glass. He knew what was behind the door and he knew that propriety said to turn back, but inquisitiveness was the stronger impulse and he moved it aside silently to step within.

The showers were many and large, made for multiple users who for the sake of decency alone, kept their eyes on their own bodies and not on the ones to the left of them. It wasn’t a surprise to find a single user tonight. It was late. If Ignis was truthful with himself, a part of him had assumed who the user might have been when he’d made the trip. Yet he’d followed the sound anyway. Under a steam shower, a glory to behold, was Gladiolus. As nude as his name day, the initial view was nothing but his backside, but he’d have been able to pick his form from any other. He’d looked long enough and hard enough that he’d cataloged it well, but it was nothing compared to actually seeing him naked and wet, unencumbered by clothing.

Gladio was miles of tanned skin. The lewdness of nudity was nothing to the sight of droplets cascading down his back. Even under the spray of the water, where he should have been lithe limbed, he stood with perfect straightness. His shoulders were rolled back, his head tilted so the spray beat upon roughhewn features made more for marble than man. The water poured across muscle, slicing over skin with practiced ease. Ignis was transfixed.

He told himself to go. He told himself that the mistake of wandering in on him was one that could be explained and even forgiven, if he simply turned to go. But his feet were stubborn, rooted to the spot. His eyes were fixed on the man in front of him. He questioned what he thought was lust before. The low curl of arousal pooling in his belly was like nothing he’d ever felt. It was wrong, he told himself, it was an invasion of privacy, but his body didn’t seem to share the same compunction in regards to decorum that his head did. It was even less interested when Gladio turned.

The shield’s eyes were blessedly shut. His hands touched himself innocently enough, but there were no such feelings coming from Ignis. He wanted. Sweat collected across his brow. He wanted. The blood rushing away from his head, lower, screamed at flight or fight or something more primal, and still he stood and breathed out with wanting. It was with some amazement he realized he wanted  _him_. Gladiolus. No other. His breath stuttered out, loud enough to draw attention. Amber eyes fixed on him, wide with surprise. And still he could not move.

 “I…I…” his speech faltered, inarticulate and clumsy.

Gladio looked at him. The shock gave way to another expression and a slow assessing look that took him in, assessing, from navel to nose. The slow curl of a smile on his face and the unabashed confidence that had Gladio turning to face him made more of a wreck of Ignis. He shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t have noticed fine, light scars like spider’s webs over the tautness of abdominals. He shouldn’t have noticed the dark thatch of hair at his groin, or the way his cock curled slightly to the left, not entirely flaccid, either from the warmth of the shower or the attention.

Suddenly, he could move. His shoes slipped on the steam slicked floor and he careened inelegantly against the wall. The purchase eventually allowed him to speed away without a word. He heard his name being called, the basso thrum of Gladio sounding slightly concerned behind him, but he couldn’t attend to it. He had to move, to flee, to be free of his own embarrassment and wanton needs. It was a good thing he was fleet footed and a good thing that he knew the city like the back of his hand.

He moved through the streets like a shadow, panting as he ran and ran until his chest burned and ached and demanded that he stop. He ran until his legs wobbled with the effort and still it didn’t seem like a far enough run. He found himself at the outskirts of the city, an area resplendent with new inhabitants. Tents and canopies were dotted between food stalls selling kabobs and stews, the air redolent with spice. It was too much for his already raw senses. When he saw a motel, he ducked into its lobby without a second thought.

“I’m in need of a room,” he said. Shaky hands with crumpled currency offered the rate emblazoned upon a cheap, two-way window but the proprietor didn’t immediately take it.

“You okay, Mister?”

Ignis fixed his most leveling gaze on the man. “The money is good, or it is not. If it is, you should simply take it and bid me goodnight.” 

The key was passed over without further fanfare and Ignis proceeded to his room without direction, reading the painted numbers on each door. When he entered, he found that it was more sparsely decorated than his own room. There were questionable stains on the bed spread. A table, stuffed into the furthest corner, wobbled on three legs that threatened to topple. But the shower was warm. All thoughts of arousal were lost to embarrassment. He turned the water to a temperature just shy of scalding, letting his skin flush dark and pink, as if he could chase away the evening’s events if only he could be clean. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, dichotomous from the flush of the rest of skin. He curled his hand into a fist and beat it once, hard, against tile. “Gods dammit,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no words of thanks large enough for my beta, anhedonix. Truly, a goddess among a throng of lesser beings.
> 
> As always, I am touched by the time anyone takes to comment or leave kudos. It keeps me motivated to continue and it gives me confidence to continue writing. I am, sadly, very susceptible to compliments. 
> 
> If you've a mind, come talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive .


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to anhedonix. I have an awful habit of changing tenses and screwing up sentences. I attribute at least half the readability of this to her good advice. 
> 
> I've begun infusing Final Fantasy XV:Brotherhood dialogue in the fic, starting with the next chapter. So, you might notice some familiar lines here and there. As we shift closer towards the game you'll notice game dialogue appearing, as well. I hope this will immerse you further. 
> 
> Thanks again for your kind comments and kudos. For better or worse, I thrive on feedback. It keeps me engaged and encourages my writing. So, thank you.
> 
> Follow and talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive .

XI.

Ignis was not known for his neurosis. He was far too logical for psychological hang ups and the very act of letting emotions impinge and congregate his otherwise orderly mind was entirely outside his normal behavior. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to go back to training alongside Gladio, not even with Noctis the dour faced, human sized buffer at his side. He was embarrassed and he couldn’t think of anything to say to allay the embarrassment, so he suffered by not going. He suffered further still by abruptly ceasing his trips to the library as well, checking out the books he wanted to read and lugging them home in the middle of the day to ensure complete avoidance of the man.

“Gladio asked about you,” Noct said from the back seat of the car. “He wanted to know when you were coming back to training. I told him I didn’t know.”

“Ah,” Ignis replied. “Please offer apologies on my behalf.”

“Offer them yourself. I’m just telling you. If you guys had some fight, that’s something you need to work out. Leave me out of it.”

He gazed at the monarch in the rearview, attempting to navigate the blankness of his features. Noctis was good at appearing emotionless, the bored expression on his face contradicting any internal machinations that might be going on under the surface. But he didn’t look irritated no matter how dismissive he seemed to be.

“You’re right. I should not have asked. “

Noctis looked forward, catching Ignis’ gaze. He held it; a surprise. “ _Did_ something happen?”

The sharpness of his gaze softened as it met Noctis’ in the mirror. It wasn’t not for Noctis to worry about. _He_ was not for Noctis to worry about. “Nothing that warrants royal attention.”

For a moment Noctis looked as if he wanted to say something else, a hesitation which had his mouth opening and then slamming shut, teeth clanking to fill the silence of an otherwise silent cab. He turned to look out the window and Ignis turned his face back to the road. The sun was high and warm; it crossed his sightline like a camera flash, a new setting. He waved goodbye to Noctis at the gate of the school, sparing another wave to Prompto who enthusiastically returned it. He knew Noctis would be okay. It was likely he had questions but Prompto and tests on figures were likely to distract him enough that he wouldn’t think too hard on Ignis’ shutting him out. There were some things, he reasoned, Noctis’ did not need to know about. That he had unintentionally watched his shield bathing, lusted, and was caught was something he didn’t feel the need to share. The shamed face he’d shown Gladio followed by the running was about all he could bear to stomach of the subject.

Still, it had left him in a precarious state in regards to training. His study had given him a solid base for forms and stretches. Gladio’s tutelage had taught him the basics of combat and defense. But he knew he was far from the battle tough advisor that Regis had hoped for him to become when he had sent him to Gladious in the first place. With return to his prior training out of the question, his options were limited. He could have gone to the Crownsgaurd but, irrationally, he didn’t want to put himself into Clarus’ path, if it could be helped. It left him only the Kingsglaive. Never one to waste a moment he penned a letter to Titus Drautos the moment he finished speaking with Noctis. He felt he was appropriately deferent without coming off as desperate but there was a figurative holding of the breath that came along with the sending and then waiting for the response. He practiced what he was taught in the small, grey hours of the morning and waited.

As it turned out Drautos didn’t care if they worked alongside the glaives or if he didn’t. He was curt if not dismissive and Ignis knew that he would have to throw himself on the mercy of a group of soldiers who weren’t often seen out of the company of each other. The Kingsglaive were a tight knit unit, Ignis knew, he’d read the reports of their heroism and of their diminishing numbers when causality briefings passed his desk. It felt somewhat selfish to ask for more from them, to ask that they spend what precious time was not already given to king and country working with him but when he weighed the personal cost of returning to the training room alongside Gladio and Noct, he felt he had little in the way of choice. It was the Kingsglaive or it was to admit failure. And Ignis was never one for failure.

XII.

Hot days in the Crown City were uncommon. As in most things, the city was a study in temperance, the weather as mild and fair as most of the populace. The citizenry stood aside the chaos, a blissful sort of hovering away from the fray. The Kingsglaive were not temperate. They were loud. Coming to their training grounds was to court a series of cat calls and taunts echoing off tan, stone walls.

In a courtyard, two glaives circled each other. Their companions sat high above them on the edge of the walls which ensconced them. Some were cheering, others waving money, while still others paced the edge of stone up high. It was another world from the Lucis he knew, and he’d heard about the rowdy parties, but he hadn’t given credence to the rumors. Gossip was abhorrent to Ignis, and with restrained chagrin he had chastised more than one person he’d heard disparaging them. It did not matter where they had come from; the moment they’d stepped foot in Insomnia, they had become crown citizens. Moreover, they gave their lives in service to the king. That was to be honored.

 “You’re in the fucking away,” a warm, female, voice called from above.

 He was the only one who could have possibly been in the way, so Ignis moved to the side, body scooting along the edges of the wall, making himself as inconspicuous as possible. One of the fighters moved, disappearing into a shower of sparks where Ignis had just stood moments before, warping. Though he’d watched Noctis do it often enough, it was fascinating to see magic made manifest in a way that was more primal, less graceful.

The glaives moved in a way entirely dissimilar, every breath an exertion, every other moment exploding in flurry of aquamarine blue and titian sparks. There were crackles of energy in the air, clear and crisp and entirely new when matching blades crashed upon each other, the knife-edges clanging in dissonance.

 He had no way of knowing how long the fighters had been at it, but it ended with the knife edge of one fighter’s blade l ~~a~~ ying bare across the throat of another. Neither seemed too concerned over the matter, and the blade at the man’s neck disappeared the moment the other yielded. He thought that was the end of it when the loser rounded on him, pointing the edge of his weapon in his direction.

 “You made me lose,” he bellowed, inching forward.

Ignis cast an askance glance around. He wasn’t used to being approached with such a tone, let alone by someone with a sharp weapon at hand. He supposed this should have engaged a flight response, or at least a flinch, but he found he was curious, instead. Still, the set of his shoulders was primed for a fight in which he prominently featured, if he read the situation wrong.

 “ _You_ made you lose, Libertus,” said a voice, unfamiliar, coming to his aide.

 The man walked with an easy, loose step. It wasn’t elegant, but it was sure and the offended party’s blade hand wavered as the other spoke, even as he continued to fix the weapon on Ignis. Whoever he was commanded respect, and Ignis watched the exchange with careful scrutiny.

 “How’d you figure that, hero?”

The man not pointing the blade at him offered a smile in his direction, the intent lost on the prince’s advisor. “You dropped your left shoulder. It’s how he always gets you.”

 A snort, and then the situation was diffused just as quickly as it had escalated. The blade was sheathed and Ignis took the time to press a finger to the bridge of his glasses, fixing the world back into perfect clarity. Glaives were beginning to fill the square now, no longer stalking the high walls. All but the woman who called the warning down to him, the unsolicited savior, and the offended party seemed disinclined to give Ignis the time of day.

 The warm feminine voice spoke up again, attracting his attention. “You look like you lost your way getting downtown. Need a ride back?”

“Ah,” Ignis responded. “This was a failure on my part. Your commander indicated that I might train with you, if I petitioned you for help directly. My name is Ignis Scientia and I’m…”

 “…the prince’s advisor. I know you are,” the stranger replied.

 “Then I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You have my name but I’m not in possession of yours.”

“Nyx. Nyx Ulric. Crowe Altius,” he said, gesturing to the woman and then the offended party. “And this asshole here, who threatened you, is Libertus Ostium.”

“A pleasure,” Ignis murmured, unsure if it was or wasn’t, but willing to continue with the pleasantries.

The one called Libertus still seemed overwhelmingly hostile to his eye, if also slightly confused. “He’s who now?”

“Honestly, do you even read the shit they send us every week? He’s in the prince’s retinue,” Crowe shook her head, fond exasperation in the timbre of her voice.

“Not if I can help it!”

Crowe gave Libertus a soft slap to the back of the head and led him away with an apologetic look in Ignis’ direction. “See you later, Nyx? Bars got new outlander bootleg. And now Libertus owes Sonitus a six pack of the pale stuff so, come by.”

Nyx made a noncommittal noise and the others departed, leaving he and Ignis alone.

“So,” he said. “From what I hear the prince is pretty handy with a sword. I hear hiss Amicitia is bigger than his father’s, too. So I have to ask, why us?”

Ignis had prepared himself for being questioned, but the situation had unfolded in a strange way. The world of the glaives was much less structured than he had imagined, none of the pleasantries he’d thought to have been in place available to help navigate his response.

“There is no finer fighter in all of Lucis than Gladious,” Ignis said, unable to keep the ferocity from his tone. “And prince Noctis is well equipped, but I’d prefer not to interrupt their sessions any longer, it’s a distraction.” 

“So you interrupt us instead?”

Ignis’s eyes flashed. Yes, he’d come by without their solicitation and yes, he’d interrupted. Also, he knew that what the Kingsglaive did for Lucis was important and that their sacrifices were many. But to compare himself or them as a unit to the crown prince was an arrogance to which he could not abide.

 “That’s crossing the line, he is your prince and as such deserves your respect, if nothing else.”

 A moment of silence, the breadth of which might have worried a man less comfortable with letting facts and figures permeate the mind, stretched on. Ignis knew it was borne of his vehemence, and though there were many things that he would allow, any dispersion on Noctis was not one of them. 

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Nyx said, oddly calm and earnest after what Ignis considered to be a fairly significant outburst on his part. “Between the border missions and our own training, the days are pretty set, but we fight for hearth and home so…”

He tilted his head to listen, confused by the calm reply and his easier agreement. “I’m grateful, truly, but I don’t quite understand the correlation between hearth and home and training me.”

Nyx smiled. The second smile he offered Ignis in the collection of minutes that he’d spent with the man. This expression he could read, rueful and somewhat sad. “Sometimes, home isn't a place. It’s a person, or people. The way you spoke about the shield and the prince, I figure that's home, or part of it. That's what you fight for.”

Ignis was glad of the high shine of the day. He was glad that it was hot and that the rest of the glaives had disappeared from the courtyard, cleaving to darkened shade, because he couldn’t contain the look of surprise that lit his features. “I’m grateful for your help, Nyx Ulric of the Kingsglaive. I believe we have an accord, you and I."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continual thank you to anhedonic. I write on my phone, I write on my break at work, and I lack good sense. Without their sincere intervention, I honestly don't think this would be enjoyable to read.
> 
> As promised, the inclusion of Brotherhood dialogue has made an appearance. Linking this kind of stuff in gives me great joy. I intend to do the same for in game dialogue when the time comes. Which should tell you, I'm in for the long haul. Consider this my experiment in Gladnis through the whole of the game and beyond. It's gonna be a long ride, so I thank you for staying with me.
> 
> Comment and kudos fuel my creativity and my soul. 
> 
> Follow me or chat with me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive. If you want to say hey, bond over these two assholes or discuss the finer points of Chapter 13, I'm your friendly, neighborhood FFXV trash panda.

XIII.

It was difficult to find time to train with Nyx. Before, he might have simply shuffled his schedule to align his time with Noctis’, consequently finding time for Gladio, as well. This was not so simple when trying to carve out time autonomous of Noctis or his duties to the council. Noctis was mostly unaware of his troubles, having entered the stubborn, selfish teenage years that completely vaulted over Ignis. He’d grown up the moment he set foot in Insomnia. There had been little choice but to school his mind into silence and maturity. He didn’t mind his lack of childhood; it seemed a tedious thing to be so self-involved when others needed help. It was waste of time to move blithely by in ignorance when there was so much to absorb. When he sometimes watched Noctis dismiss a report he’d carefully compiled in favor of playing another game of Kings Knight with Prompto, he had to wonder if missed learning how to relax in the time he spent dismissing childhood play. 

He carried his knowledge on his shoulders. It was almost a physical weight that felt inimitable at times, as if only he would ever know the burden. He watched his surroundings with hawkish eyes, trying to divorce thoughts of Gladio away entirely, which left an already sharp acuity, and reading of people, sharper still. He watched the king more and more. He watched Clarus Amicitia, too, a somewhat counter intuitive choice when he wished to banish thoughts of Gladiolus away. In watching them, he concluded; the king was waning, the time of his glory quickly fading.

Ignis followed the king and the council out into the length of the hallway one afternoon, pausing at the sound of his name being called by none other than Regis himself. He stopped, turning and inclining his head, the barest tilt of reverence. The king was limping now, trying to cover the imbalance by leaning more heavily on his cane. He could not stop himself from inquiring.

“Has the wall taken such a toll on his majesty?”

The curiosity might have been met with censure or derision were Regis as any less of a king than he was. He was a clement ruler and always treated Ignis with respect and even kindness when time allowed it. He never stood on ceremony unless decorum called for it. 

“It would appear so,” Regis answered, walking towards the span of a clear glass window, from which all of Insomnia below could be seen. He seemed to regard the people below or the buildings with such concern and such sadness that Ignis felt physical ache in response, his heart heavy and sad.

“Only the king can create the wall and project his people,” he continued. “If something foul should befall me, the heir of Lucis  _must_  take the throne.” His gaze fell heavy on Ignis, imbued with a benevolence as well as resolve. “But I will end this war before that, and I leave Noct in your care.”

He tried to quickly come up with words which would convey the munificence of being trusted with such a charge. He tried to say that he took his position as Noctis’ advisor seriously, to convey his love of Lucis, to articulate the strength of his steadfastness and his fealty. He tried to come up with words on how much Noctis meant to him as a prince, but also as a boy, on the precipice of manhood. He could not school his tongue to eloquence. For once, it gave him nothing. He only managed a single word reply.

“Understood.”

Noctis would need to lead, and soon. He’d known it before, but the brief exchange assured him now that the time of his ascension was coming on much quicker than either he or Noctis might have thought. Noctis wasn’t ready, but Ignis sent a wordless promise unto the heavens. If there was anything he had to do, anything he might do, any sacrifice to be made or any price to be paid to see the line of Lucis flourish under Noctis’ rule as it had done under Regis’; he would pay it.  

XIV.

Thoughts on King and country distracted him. This knowledge set his teeth on edge, and made him question his own readiness to lead and help Noct towards the fulfillment of his duty. Nyx aimed a well-placed kick to his knee, which promptly gave out under the power of the strike. 

“You need to pay attention,” he censured. “The javelin isn’t the right weapon for you. Too top heavy. It makes you slow. Your power is  _in_  your speed.”

Ignis stood up, sufficiently chastised, brushing dirt from his trousers and pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “What might you have in mind?”

Nyx offered him daggers. He’d thought on using daggers before. He’d most seriously considered their use the day he’d first officially started training with Gladiolus. That day, in watching both Noctis and Gladio swing their swords, he felt the fraility of smaller armaments might have left him inferior. He wondered what Gladio might have thought of them, as he never had spoken his fears aloud. There was so much he wished that he had said, so much that now seemed as if it never _would_ be said. He was a victim of his own choices and he allowed a moment to pass where he considered the weight of those choices along with the weight of the daggers upon his palms.

When pressed into his hands, he found daggers fit more easily than any swords he’d ever used, they were lighter and more easily maneuverable than the javelin, as well. Iron made, chased with silver, inlaid with a gem at the crest; the color of the sea after a storm. They were works of beauty. They were darker at the hilt, where hammered crosses stood in stark contrast to a rather delicate wing off the sides. There was stunning craftsmanship here, but the artesian had left them functional and perfectly balanced-stunning as well as deadly.

“These are lovely,” he murmured, gripping the hilt up high, careful to avoid the sharpness of the blade.

“They came in a bundle; what was left from the survivors of Galahd.”

Ignis turned, frowning over his shoulder. “Did they belong to a family, to anyone who might wish to have them back? I wouldn’t wish to wield anything so precious as someone else’s heirlooms.”

Nyx regarded him carefully, as if trying to parse the details of him simply by looking. There was a hardness to the initial expression that gradually softened. “I never saw them before they came in for inventory. We collected what we could on the roads. They caught someone’s eye, not mine. Probably because they were nice to look at. I didn’t pick them up. I don’t know who they belonged to. “

Nyx used his fingers to press Ignis’ down further on the grip, instructing him that he was grasping up too high, impairing the accuracy and the brunt force he could wield. Ignis was careful to comply with the instructions, but tentative with each twist, turn, and feint that he was instructed to perform.

“I don’t get you,” Nyx said, exasperated. “They’re weapons. You don’t have to treat them like they’re glass.”

“Not like glass,” he corrected. “But with reverence, which is a much different thing. With honor.”

“Honoring what?”

“A sacrifice someone was never meant to have made.”

A silence carried, but Ignis didn’t allow it to become uncomfortable. Instead, he engaged himself with movement, easy grace, much less encumbered by the lightness of the daggers than with a sword. He paced through movements Gladio taught him, forms he knew now like he knew his own breath. He could feel the specter of Gladio beside him, a silent urging to never to turn his back on a potential adversary, as he fluidly swept the air with a flick of one of the blades. He turned from Nyx because he knew they were not enemies, but simply lacked understanding of one another.

 “ _I’m_  from Galahd,” Nyx said finally.

 “I know.”

 “How did you- “

 “– if I was to rely on you I had to know you were a man worthy of trust. I had every one of the Kingsglaive fully vetted before I ever came here.”

“Paranoid,”

 Ignis smiled, a brief flash of teeth. “I prefer to think of it as prudent.”

He finished his movements, fluidly shifting to a crouch, before coming to stand straight once more. Nyx gave him no reprieve, rapid fire instructions falling from a tone both steady and final, a further shift in their dialogue.

“Keep your grip stable, firm, no tension on the muscles of your fingers. If you’re gripping too hard, they won’t be able to release the blade,” Nyx walked around him, making small corrections, prying up the corners of fingers which were holding too fast. “Don’t hold so tight, Ignis. Muscle tension means you’re too tense. It’s not a game of force, it’s touch.”

“I wouldn’t call battle or war a game,” Ignis replied, quickly making the necessary adjustments requested of him.

Completely ignoring his comment, Nyx continued his barrage of instructions, clipped and clinical. “Hold the dagger just tight enough so it won’t slide. You can maintain control when speeding up for a throw- “

“- a  _throw,_ ” Ignis was dumbfounded.

“Dammit, just listen and do what I tell you. “

Nyx kicked at his foot, upsetting the balance so that his right foot was forward, rather than aligned with his left. “Set your eyes, the daggers, your target, all on one continuous line. When you throw, maintain the movement of your arm in a plane of two dimensions.”

He could see the reasoning behind such a suggestion. It kept the sideways motion of his arm at a minimum, improving accuracy. He shifted his glance from the straight away, looking at his target to one which favored Nyx, whose expression had closed off. This was a tactician giving orders, and as Ignis fancied himself cut from a similar cloth, it steeled his resolve to comply with the directives to the letter. “What next?”

“Keep more of the weight on your forward foot; balance your posture. Lean forward. Don’t lift the foot on the follow-through. Four fingers at the grip, one to guide the motion. Keep the end of the blade pointing up as you toss.”

His body moved with clarity of purpose and not as awkwardly as he might of thought. It was like an extension of his arm, and through he was not as agile as he was with a sword yet, he could see that, in time, he would be. The economy of movement was so strangely supple; he could see it being even better. When he let the dagger fly, it embedded itself in the pillar with a satisfactory thud. He shook his head in amazement.

“You’re a natural,” Nyx offered. “Could make a Kingsglaive out of you.”

 “I wouldn’t say I did all that well,” he replied. “It was serviceable, at best.”

 “You need to learn how to take a compliment.”

“It’s been said. Suggestions on learning how to better relax and calm the mind have also been recommended, but have yet to take.” Ignis repeated his previous movements, letting the second of his daggers fly. It met its target nearly as well as the first, but a satisfied hum was all the self-congratulations he allowed.

“Sometimes other people are right,” Nyx said, walking to the pillar to retrieve the blades. “You might want to consider listening to them.”

Faint amusement crossed with irritation at being talked at by someone, judged by someone, even if in the friendly, assessing manner that Nyx was seeking to do. “You believe I’m so easily read? That you can make assumptions on what I should and should not do? You hardly know me.”

Nyx shrugged. “I see you,” he said, maddeningly brief in his explanation.

 “And what, pray tell, do you think you see?”

 “That you’re running from something. Believe me, I know what running looks like. “

Nyx held both blades loosely in one hand, heedless of the danger of their sharpness. He came closer to Ignis, his other hand falling heavy on Ignis’ shoulder. Still hesitant of touch, Ignis faltered, unsure of the how to proceed. If this was an act of contrition, he was reluctant to dismiss it, but he didn’t feel the comfortable ease he did with Noctis, nor the flush of care he did with Gladio. So, he stood, ramrod straight, the line of his shoulders tight and unsure.

“There is nothing I’m running from,” Ignis assured. It tasted of a lie. He ran from Gladio and the idea that he felt something strong and indescribable for him. He ran from that place because it highlighted things about himself he didn’t yet understand and things he didn’t wish to know. But he couldn’t tell Nyx this, nor did he want to. Those were private thoughts.

Another shrug. “I’m just saying, if you  _were_ , there’s no better place for that than the Glaive,”

A slow realization dawned, one of surprise, as he let the implications lie, allowing the exchange to play over in his mind to make sense of it. “You’re trying to recruit me,” he alleged, somewhat moved at the idea of being wanted while the idea was, in and of itself, wholly anathema.

“Would that be so bad?” Nyx hedged, passing the blades back to him. “We could use a smart guy. And from what I hear, you could use someone to back you up.”

Ignis didn’t ask why he assumed he was bereft of companionship. It was an assumption many held, and he didn’t exactly discourage the idea, what with his late nights tending to Noctis and his new apartment, or his early mornings spent over briefings. He was the subject of some gossip, he knew that, as well. It was hardly a surprise when a man of twenty-one was hardly seen outside royal service, when he was never seen in the company of anyone other than those explicitly tied to the royal line or no one at all. Still, hearing it said aloud and without the slightest compunction made him feel more self-conscious. 

“I have nothing but respect for all that you do for the Crown City,” Ignis replied, softly. “There is a debt we citizens owe to you, but I am neither without friends nor position, however it may seem. I’ve an affinity for what I do and whom I do it for that I would not give up for the whole of Eos,” he offered a genuine smile. “But, I will admit, I’m rather pleased at having been asked.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Certainly not.”

They worked well into the night. Each hour proving Nyx right. Ignis’ exactness and precision were a perfect fit to wield twin daggers. When he left the grounds upon which the Glaives trained, he was met with a soreness to the muscles in his shoulders. For a malediction upon his person, he felt curiously calm. There was something to physical exertion that divorced the mind from the body, letting it all slip away. He could see why Gladio enjoyed it so much and ached to tell him. He did not reach for his phone, nor did he go to his side. Instead, he filed the information away for a day he was unsure would ever come.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off, I am so sorry this took so long to update. It was mostly done ages ago and then I went on a mini-vacation and got distracted. 
> 
> Secondly, this chapter is absurdly long. I apologize for that, as well. I just couldn't find a decent place to cut it. Also, this chapter was particularly difficult to write. I feel like it's awful, and if you think so to, I would not blame you. Feed the authors insecurities, if you've a mind by letting me know it doesn't suck too bad.
> 
> Thirdly, this is unbeta'd, and likely full of mistakes. Please forgive me.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Gladio!
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive . I love talking to people. I truly do.

XV.

Ignis rededicated himself to the process of readying Noct for the throne. That his father was clearly fading hasn’t escaped the young prince's notice. Noctis was far more perceptive than people gave him credit for, but he seemed flippant and dismissive all the same. Whereas once he might have blamed Prompto for making Noct lazier or putting forth a bad example, Ignis has noticed that it was often other way around. Noctis was a superior student to Prompto, he hardly had to try to make passable grades. Prompto had to try a great deal just to remain middling. It wasn’t that he lacked intelligence, it was just that his form of intelligence wasn’t suited to books and outward cleverness. He had an innate understanding of people which made him better than even Ignis at reading the prince's moods and dealing with them accordingly. It was a rare skill, but it was lacking any benefit scholastically.

Noctis was royal and Prompto was common, another difference between them. He was a latchkey child from a family who never seemed to have done the young man a solid turn. Noctis should have been to Prompto a guide or a beacon, merely by his form and presence. But he wasn’t. It was somewhat vexing to watch as Noctis drew Prompto away, to the arcade, for what seemed like the thousandth time and then to hear the pair of them bemoan their poor scores on tests. Prompto was easily led by example and Noctis’ example had been poor of late. Ignis partially blamed himself.

He found himself hovering near the door way to Noctis’ new apartment, given to him as a sign of trust by the King, when the sun was just setting. Coming over to Noctis’ was becoming an important part of his to-do list. Ever since Regis had seen fit to allow Noctis a place outside the castle, he’d built up a wall autonomous of his duties as crown prince, and surrounded himself with guilty pleasures like junk food and comic books and long nights playing video games, which left him bleary eyed and largely useless in the mornings. It took every ounce of Ignis’ sagacity to coax Noctis from his bed with promises of breakfast and duty and fast rides in faster cars like the Regalia. Even then, Ignis only just managed to drag him to school in time for his classes. It simply wasn’t right and it left Ignis feeling as if he was failing in his promise to the king. Hadn’t Regis asked him to look after Noct? Hadn’t he promised himself that he would do all that was necessary to assure that Noctis was fit to rule? His distraction with training and what was now, a seemingly endless parade of reports, had left little time to spend attending to his promise. Seeing no other course of action, he cut the hours he slept in half from six hours to three, happy to notice that he accomplished more even as dark shadows began to appear beneath his eyes. He began to ignore mirrors and relied on Ebony like a crutch. A can in his grasp became so commonplace his fingers better remembered it’s conical shape than that of a pen or a blade, much to his perpetual chagrin.

The room was dark. Noctis was not yet home. Given that it was after school, it was most likely that the prince had absconded with Prompto again. He should have known this was to be the case when Noctis had told him not to bother to collect him from school. Ignis decided he would clean for lack of anything else to do there. It gave him some peace of mind to know that his charge wouldn’t be sleeping in squalor but there was a tinge of resentment at being relegated to cleaning man alongside confidant, tutor, chauffeur and friend. It would do Noct good, he thought, to grow and mature. He wondered if there wasn’t some sort of lesson to be learned in allowing Noctis to absorb these lessons naturally, rather than waiting for nature to correct these failures of responsibility. He wondered if attending to his needs and whims so easily might not have made Noctis less likely to mature. In the end, in the absence of knowing which the best move was, to take care of him or not, he decided to cater to him and play the waiting game.

The apartment was a sight worse than he imagined. There were dirty dishes piled on the counter. From the entrance, where he carefully removed his shoes, he could see food crusted on the edge of plates that Noctis decided not to wash. Every trash can was full to overflowing. There was a banana peel on the floor. Books were scattered, some half open, some set up like pyramids, school books and comics alike on the table and spilling onto the floor. There was a stench coming from the kitchen that Ignis was loath to examine for fear of what he’d find. He sighed, balancing a bag of groceries on his hip, as he considered what his first move would be. It seemed quite the task.

In the end his endeavors took hours. He carefully separated books for school and books for leisure. He alphabetized them and shelved them. Amongst the rubble he found Lady Lunafreya’s notebook and became irrationally angry at seeing something so obviously important collected near trash. Gradually, as he worked, the ire fade to a simmer. In the end, he rationalized, that the notebook was their property, Noct’s and Luna’s, and though he dearly wished that Noctis would have a care with his things there was only so much that he, an interloper, could do. He let the dirty dishes soak in the sink and when he was finished, the apartment was spic and span. He’d used two bottles of disinfectant cleaner, a testament filthiness of the rooms.

Despite it all, he wanted Noctis to come home to something nice. He baked. Carefully slicing butter into batter, mixing cold water into the dough to make the base of the pastry flakier and richer, he tried to recreate a sweet that Noctis had once waxed poetic about. Not prone to wordy praise, Noct had been particularly garrulous on the subject, which had piqued Ignis’ interest. It was flaky, he'd said. It was rich but still delicate. There were hints of something spicy, perhaps pink peppercorn and something sweetly herbal, which they had narrowed down to being either anise or basil, but Ignis had still never perfected it enough to meet the prince’s full approval. He found himself trying often to recreate it. In the beginning, it had been a point of pride in his skills. He wanted to recreate the recipe to prove that he could. Though there was a small part of him which still would derive pleasure for the accomplishment, it became less and less about doing so and more and more about pleasing Noctis. He wasn’t sure, given the circumstance, if he was making them now as a peace offering for what was to come, planning a lecture to assert the need for Noctis to prove himself a prince rather than a lay about, or if it was a way to stave off what was to be an uncomfortable conversation, but he started the baking without thought.

He moved about the kitchen gracefully, rinsing vegetables, chopping them and readying a meal when Noctis walked into the room. Their greeting began with a nod and the slightest bit of hesitance from the prince.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, undeterred from his work.

“I _mind_ the vegetables,”

Ignis shook his head. “You shouldn’t. Your diet is far from ideal. You need to begin addressing the nutritional value of your food. And you ought to learn to cook for yourself.”

It did not surprise him that Noct dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand and groan of acknowledgement or that Noctis complied when being told to wash up for dinner. Perhaps Noct would never need to know how to cook. For now, he had Ignis, later, he might have a wife and if she was amiable to doing the cooking, then he would never have to learn. But cooking was a skill, and one of survival at that. Ignis dearly wished that Noctis showed any affinity for doing anything that might help him later in life. This usually failed to bother him, but the further into infirmity King Regis slipped, the more Ignis wished and hoped that Noctis would attend to important things.

It did surprise him that Noctis’ next move was to tear around the apartment, apparently having missed the sight of it being clean when he initially entered. He didn't even mention the cleanliness or the smell. Ignis attempted not to be off put by the slight. He failed, the failure complete when he noticed that Noctis left a spare button from his uniform laying on the corner of the bar. His lips formed a thin line of disappointment. He remind himself that he cared deeply for Noctis. It was true, but some days his attitude left the ever even Ignis at a loss and ready to reply in a tone not befitting the retainer of a monarch. Perhaps, he thought, his mood would improve after dinner.

Noctis ate like a man starving. His table manners left much to be desired but when he smiled around his fork, Ignis felt the flush of a job well done. It was strange to consider how much meaning he ascribed to acts of wordless praise, to Noctis licking the edge of a knife clean, the way the clap of Gladio’s hand felt at his shoulder after a particularly difficult gambit, the wide, happy eyes of Prompto when Ignis had presented him with a scarf he knitted over the holiday, the feral grin Nyx gave when he aimed for and hit a target soundly. They meant so much more than even that which was articulated in words.

They ate. They shared dessert. It’s not, despite his hope, the correct recipe, but he already had ideas to change and amend the way he constructed the dough and sweetened the filling. He forewarned Noctis that he'd return tomorrow, this time in the possession of reports that he would need to understand and study so that he could speak on them with both eloquence and aplomb. He entreated him to lock all the doors and windows for safety reasons. Though he didn't say so, and though Lucis was as safe as anywhere in Eos, there persisted the worry that someone might want to take advantage, lay siege to the royal apartments and hurt him. Noct dismissed him for the evening and he left with a pit in his stomach and a wonder if he was up to the task that was given him.

XVI.

He dropped the reports off at Noctis’ while the prince was at school. He knew his schedule by heart, knowing that if he dropped the papers off in the early afternoon, and if Noctis finished his classes at two and then returned directly home, as he had promised to do, that there would  be several hours in which he could peruse the reports Ignis had carefully compiled the previous night. He readied himself to talk over the minutiae with the prince, though something dark and cynical chided him for believing that he’d be ready to do so.

Ignis was distracted by morning meetings. There had been a brief siege, to west of Secullam Pass, the kingdom had lost six Glaives and it had led to a two-day evacuation of Saxham Outpost, as a precautionary measure. But they did not have leadership outside the walls, so their mission had simply been one of recognizance. The task of securing the area had been flatly rejected by the council since both the outpost and pass were far from their boarders. In the end, even as spectators only, and with the strict instruction that the Glaives were only to respond to direct conflict, they had lost them all. Ignis felt heavy with the knowledge of death, pictures of charred and burnt bodies emblazoned in his mind. His mood was dark as he buried himself in numbers of what were considered acceptable losses, surprising though they were.

He turned on the television in the office he occupied. It was not his in name, though it ought to have been considering the time he spent there. On the screen, the King took part in a media event. He watched him struggle and turned it off. He didn't need to see. He'd seen enough. His already dark mood deepened into something akin to a stupor. He stared out the window until the sky turned indigo blue, the faintest hints of auburn spreading like tendrils, heralding the birth of night and death of day. He took one last look at the pictures in the account he’d be trying to put out of mind all day, before closing it, placing them into a portfolio. This information would be hidden from the people of Lucis, buried under layers of mendacity and puff pieces in print and on the radio. His head pounded under the stress of what he knew and could not say.

Ignis fired off a quick text message to Nyx, offering condolences. He heard nothing back. It didn't surprise him. The Kingsglaive were an entity unto and of themselves, they were insular and so it was likely their mourning process would be so, as well. He drove too quickly towards Noctis’ apartment. It was as if he was chasing down something. He didn't catalog his speed, but he broke every rule of the road with some strange satisfaction on the way. No one stopped him; no one tried. The streets were clear in a way that eluded his thoughts.

When he arrived at his destination, he found the report he prepared for Noctis lies exactly as he had left it, in the entryway, untouched. He flipped it open to check and see if the pages had been disturbed and then put back. They had not. His stomach lurched, cool demeanor further disturbed. He was not frustrated. He was angry. He was ineffectual. He set his briefcase down to loudly, disturbing Noct who looked up at him expectantly, then bypassed him without so much as a world.

He asked him about the report because he could no help himself, though he knew the answering before hearing it. He shook his head. What was there to do when a leader didn't t wish to lead? What could be done for apathy? Was there a tonic, a pill, some inspirational literature to be read? He was at a loss. In his helplessness, he attempted to appeal to the humanity that he had seen displayed with such alacrity in the past. 

“The news is being regulated, “he told him. “But we receive reports of local skirmishes from time to time.” He doesn’t tell him about his day, or the things he’s seen, only in photographs, that have chilled him to the core. 

“I know.” Noctis flopped on the sofa, supine and relaxed, closing himself to further inquiry. Ignis remained steadfastly undeterred. 

“Thanks to the king and the wall, Lucis has been able to enjoy peace for the past one hundred and fifty years. As the King, he must sacrifice his own strength to create the barrier. His majesty has avoided the public eye to concentrate solely on the wall. However, it appears he has lost the ability to summon weapons,” he offered this last part, hoping to surprise the prince and jolt him into action. The only movement this inspired in was the the turning of his back. Ignis bit down upon his tongue, stifling a sigh. “Are you listening?”

“Do we have to talk about this now?”

There is a terse silence wherein Ignis considered. He’d been accused of softness when it came to Noctis before. He recognized this, but had seen little issue with coddling if the result was a more satisfied prince, or a happier one. As his first and dearest friend, Ignis desperately wanted Noctis’ happiness. Still, there was a time when halcyon days had to give way to logic and, he reasoned, there was only so many times he could default on his role as friend rather than that of advisor.

“If not now, then when? You are the successor to the throne and someday…”

“My dad’s going to die?”

There is a beat of silence that Ignis is afraid to fill. Whatever response will be the wrong one, either too kind and mollifying or cruel and capricious. “I didn’t…”

“That’s what you’re saying! “Noctis is fearsome ire, sitting up, eye blazing with the passionate fire which was always just there, beneath the skin, reluctant to show but for very rare situations. “When my dad dies, “he continued. “I have to be the king!”

Noctis was yelling then, every line of his body prone for a fight. 

On reflex alone, Ignis’ left hand coiled into a fit. It’s a defensive mechanism that has been honed, first by Gladio and then by Nyx, mindful of apparent danger and readying a defense. He dearly wished he could solve this problem with a punch or deflection. In a way, it was much easier to diffuse a situation with physicality. A trained body moved without thought, driven my instinct. A mind, however keen, could only process incrementally.

“Shouting will not change the truth,” he settled on finally, allowing his posture to relax. It did no good for both to be upended.

“I don’t want to hear _your_ truth.”

He was torn between continuing the barrage and letting the tether of the conversation slip away, frustrated at the childish way Noctis accepted information which no doubt belied a seeded sadness at having brought to light his father mortality. Internally, Ignis admitted to a small defeat. He would see to this subject again, he had no choice, but he recognized a rawness in them both that could see the precarious balance they'd constructed over time crack and crumble. He acceded defeat, if just for the night. “I see you won’t listen to reason,” Ignis reached for his things, putting them away carefully. “But you ought to at least think it over.”

He walked to his car. His posture was upright, and he carried subtle litheness to his limbs that hid the maelstrom within. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he laid his arms on the steering wheel, and set his forehead against his wrists. He breathed deeply, letting moments pass, but there was no peace to be had.

XVII.

He thought on sleep but knew it would not come. He set the car in the direction of the Kingsglaive training grounds, only to find that he turned towards the royal training rooms instead. He snorted at his own foolishness but he wished for the quiet familiarity of the days he spent with Gladio. When he reached the open rotunda, he didn't select daggers, he went for the javelin. Recently, he'd become far more efficient with blades, in point of fact, he preferred their lightness. But tonight, he ached for the normalcy of months ago. He yearned for the acquaintance days gone by.

Ignis slid, feinted, stabbed, turned. He worked his body into a fine torpor, as if somehow tiring the body would quiet his mind. It didn't, but he was somewhat distracted by the shake of his own limbs, the unsteadiness as he puts the weapon back in its place, and wiped the floor clean of the evidence of his exertion. He considered a shower but in the end, decide to make for home. A ghost of memory existed between the training rooms and the showers, and he discovered he hadn't the mental fortitude to combat them. 

Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor for on his way outside the doors, working his way to the parking garage on shaky legs, he found Gladio. The larger man raised his hand in greeting, shyly, and Ignis almost broke in response. His mouth was ready to shape words. He was ready to tell him that he ran away that night, confounded by his own lust and needs, and that he stayed away for fear the Gladio would hate him or think less of him. He wanted to tell him that he’s eschewed the library for fear of seeing him again, but that he checked out _The_ _Turquoise Accordo_ and read it cover to cover in the span of an evening, simply because he remembered that had been the book Gladio was reading the first day they’d met in the library. It was awful, and Ignis had laughed into his pillow. He wanted to share his fears on Noctis and the crown. He wanted to tell him that he was beginning to understand why people put such emphasis on cultivating relationships, if only so they could share the burden of their everyday lives. He wanted. Instead, he raised his hand, greeting Gladio in the exact same way the other man had done, tentative yet accepting.

“Noct’s been slacking off, lately,” Gladio offered. Amber eyes searched Ignis’ face. He’s sure his cheeks colored under their scrutiny, and was glad that the dark offered so easy an obscurity.

“Was he with you?” It was difficult to ask. He wanted to, selfishly, remove thoughts of Noctis from the mind, if only for a score of hours. He didn't know what to do with this frustration, or how to allay his own concerns for Noctis’ inability to meet his expectations and others.

“Earlier, yeah,” Gladio seemed to consider for a moment. “But he’s been missing sessions. Keep an eye on him? If he tries to skip out on training again, bring him by.”

The nod of acquiescence comes as a reflex. In much the same way as Regis' request had elicited a promise of protection from Ignis, Gladio could count on him similarly, to set him on a path to fulfill his duty. A sudden understanding that though he might have ruined their friendship through his behavior, that their fates would be inexplicably tied up in duty to Noctis gave him a peace he hadn’t expected. He was not alone in this. He never would be alone in this. Gladio would watch Noctis' front, protecting, guiding, shielding. And Ignis, Ignis would have his back, always.

“Certainly,” he replied. The realization of having a shared duty, if naught else, made Ignis brazen, letting his guard down enough to let a sigh slip free. “But I never know what goes on in that head of his. Sometimes I wonder if he even understands his position.”

Gladio’s expression was kind and fond. “Give him a little more credit than that.”

He smiled and Ignis smiled in return. Moments spanned and neither said a word. Ignis was familiar with silence. He counted it as a dear friend. People were seldom so accommodating as to allow him the quiet and Ignis found another reason to count Gladio dear.

“You okay,” Gladio asked finally.

“Me? I’m fine,” he tilted his head, ghost of a smile still playing at his lips.

“Wasn’t sure. Thought you might be getting flabby without me. You haven’t been back to training since…”Gladio’s words trailed off, dangling on the edge, where if Ignis wanted to explain his actions, he could have.

“Do I look as if I’ve gone soft,” he asked instead, somewhat mortified when Gladio gives him a searching look from foot to forehead.

“Nah, but it makes me wonder what you’ve been doing,”

Ignis, ever enigmatic, simply stared.

Shoving off the wall, Gladio shook his head, twisting and readying retreat. “Keep your secrets then.”

Ignis’ hand twitched, an involuntary flexing that had him almost reaching for Gladiolus before he stopped himself.

“If,” he began. “If I can tempt Noctis away from his days at the arcade to fulfill his obligations to train, I will.” He stepped forward then, certain in his intent. “Despite my worries, I’ll always look to his well being. “

Cutting the distance between them, Gladio turned. “I know you will. You always do.”

It is benediction granted by an unasked party and Ignis feels absurdly, stupidly grateful. “Thank you, Gladiolus.”

“Nothing to thank me for, it’s true.”

“Even so.”

Those honeyed eyes were on him again and Ignis felt the sting of time being lost. This was his friend, more so even than the object of his lust or affection, but he could not seem to bridge the gap of his embarrassment to further the conversation or ask Gladio for his time, however much he wanted to. The moment hung too long, and Gladio was one to decide to end the exchange, decisively, while Ignis hovered in indecision.

“Don’t be a stranger, Iggy,” he called over his shoulder, leaving Ignis behind.

He watched him go, look lingering until the shape of him disappeared past the walls of the training halls and into darkness. He felt bereft of something he could not give name to.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, these chapters are getting longer and longer. So, my updates are getting more and more infrequent. Please forgive me. I’d like to ascribe the slowness to a vibrant social life, but it’s just that grad school is kicking my ass so hard I’m practically hitting a goal post. I’m 100% dedicated to this story and continuing with it. Please bear with my slowness. I hope you enjoy the beginnings of romance. It’s coming in a big way in future chapters.
> 
> I’m without beta again, so if anyone feels so compelled, I’d be grateful. As this hasn’t seen a beta; I beg forgiveness and lack of sleep for any mistakes you might see.
> 
> If anyone can identify the song lyrics I ham-fisted into this chapter, I will write you whatever Gladnis promt you’ve got.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive 
> 
> Comments and kudos keep me motivated and fuel my weak and compliment seeking soul

XVIII.

There were still concerns on the King’s health. It was impossible to ignore, but he and Noct mended fences over pastries, and time began to crawl by in much the same way it usually did. Months passed and a tentative sort of normalcy took hold. Ignis was glad of this, if only because Noctis’ eighteenth birthday hovered on the horizon and, whilst he usually disliked discord between them, he especially didn’t wish the looming celebration to be tainted by bad blood. To Ignis there was no real need to celebrate _this_ birthday more so than others. The physical changes that marked a man having occurred much before he reached eighteen but societal constructs heralded this name day as something other. Ignis supposed it was true, if only because Noctis could now drink legally. Though the prince had never shown an affinity for drinking or alcohol, he found he was somewhat disconcerted at the thought of its free availability. To provide Noctis with anything that could lead to trouble was tantamount to a disaster, so far as he was concerned, regardless of whether one occurred or no.

It was of no large surprise that the King chooses to throw Noctis a party. What was a surprise was the party’s location and the invite which appeared in his mail slot, as if by magic, bearing no postmark or seal. Instead of the palace, the revelry was to take place in a small bar at the tail end of Insomnia’s borders. He’d never heard of the place but a quick bit of research proclaimed the setting trendy, seedy, or mysterious, depending on what review you ascribed the most merit to.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he thought about what information he could cull, but disapproval sat on the very edges of his mind. Surely a nice, quiet soiree at the palace would have been a more prudent selection, if not as fun. He replied to the request of his presence with a curt answer, as he tried to put the very thought of it out of mind. The party was more than a week away and thoughts on it were better devoted to actual issues rather than mere theory.

XIX.

The evening crept up on him quite without notice. The day had seen a cloudburst cover the land with quicksilver rain that bathed much of Insomia in a quiet, shining crystalline. As he walked past the training rooms, having delivered the prince to training with Gladiolus, he’d watched as Iris Amicitia launched at Noctis like a cannon, throwing her arms about the prince’s neck as she proclaimed that the weather was simply being cooperative, crying in happiness that Noctis had been born in the first place. He smiled, watching as Gladio rubbed at the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed by his sister’s exuberance. It was such an innocent moment given credence by the Iris’ complete lack of guile. Noctis gently patted Iris’ back and Ignis chuckled to himself before resuming his day. There was something to be said for the audacity of sheer innocence.

He left his duties early, spending time readying himself for the evening’s festivities. He left reports unfiled, feeling a sort of dangerousness at having left something unfinished. He took care to select clothing which was less structured than that which he normally wore, seeking to blend in rather than stand out when presented with the opportunity. A soft, black button down without a jacket and cotton blended slacks without dress shoes cut quite the relaxed figure, so far as he was concerned.

When he arrived at the bar, it was lit rather impressively.  Banners and streamers in an array of colors hung from every available surface. Confetti was on the floor when he arrived, creating mosaics shards on which people trod, unconcerned. In the center of the room was Noctis, sheepishly chagrined with all the focus on him, but when his father made a toast his blue eyes were as bright as the festivities around him. Ignis smiled, too, his heart high and warm. He watched how Prompto cleaved to the prince’s side, no drink in his hand, and the expression grew. This was happiness in practice, contentment in motion but, as with most beautiful things, the experience was a fleeting one.

Soon the party divided into sections. Dignitaries and sycophants surrounded Noctis like prey. Ignis kept himself away from it, knowing it was a necessary evil, but he didn’t have to like it. For lack of the ability to change the situation he employed the art of the skillful drink ordering, sampling enough of Insomnia's well-made beers, until the barest hint of warmth had begun to lighten his mood. He parted the crowd, noticing more of how divided the festivities had become. The commoners and the soldiers had cordoned themselves off from the royals and the rich, forming concentric circles, their common center the prince and his father. The annulus grew larger and larger the later it became, heightening the disparity between the haves and the have nots.

In this time the party grew increasingly raucous. Youngsters and soldiers loudly cheered the prince, wishing him good health. There wasn’t a disingenuous well-wisher amongst them but Ignis couldn’t help to wonder what they might make of Noct if they truly knew him. Would they love him? Would they judge him harshly, or embrace his youthful indiscretions? He took a last sip from his drink, leaving the empty glass on the edge of the bar. The noise was getting to him despite his higher humor, the alcohol making him pliable in a way which set his mind towards even greater introspection.

Ignis excused himself to the outside of the club, to a smoking balcony which was blessedly empty. He took up residence on the edge of a bulwark, watching as still more guests spilled into the party, observing the world below from a taller vantage. Spending time with the Kinglaive had instilled in him an appreciation for a good view. Like Noctis, they spent so much time in the air, a dancer’s nimble agility giving them the appearance of walking on clouds; they thought nothing of climbing to the highest of places. He didn’t carry such a relationship with the King or the crystal, and so it was not ingrained in him to trust that he could remove himself from so great a height by thought alone, but he adopted their bravery and borrowed their lissomness as he alighted from the wrought iron which encircled the balcony, moving higher still, emboldened by the fire in his belly.

When a warm hand encircled his wrist, wresting him, stopping him from climbing further, he blinked at the intruder owlishly.

“I think you should stick to the ground,” Nyx chuckled.

“Are you saying that if I took a tumble from so great a height that you’d let me fall?”

The man pulled harder, yanking him back over the edge of the balcony, onto solid ground. He stumbled before righting himself with some difficulty, less composed than was usual.

“I’m saying that I followed you out here, but if I didn’t there would be nobody to warp to your rescue, princess.”

Ignis snorted, pressing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Disparaging remarks are unbecoming.”

“So’s public drunkenness but you don’t hear me complaining.”

As always they fell into a companionable silence. Nyx kept hold of his wrist, which was an oddity, but in his heightened state he thought little of it, other than to look down at both their hands and raise a brow.

“Your friends getting pretty drunk in there,” Nyx offered, slowly releasing his hold.

“My friend…” his voice trailed off, attention turned back to the world below, at the dizzying array of people who were more interesting from far away than most people managed close up.

“Gladiolus, Gladio, “Nyx continued. “Glaive challenged the Crownguard to a drinking game. He’s the only one left standing on your end.“ Nyx gave him a side eyed glance, an open challenge in his expression. “You city folk are soft.”

Perhaps without meaning to Nyx had captured Ignis’ attention, Gladio’s name alone something of a clarion call. “Is he still standing?”

“Not for much longer, “the other man admitted.

“Show me.”

XX.

Gladio _was_ still standing when Ignis and Nyx arrived, but only just. The shield swayed on his feet, bracing a hand on a low bistro table and sending a heated glance the way of a Glaive whose named Ignis didn’t know. They tossed insults at each other, lobbing barbs like balls, throwing back drinks with reckless abandon. After the next round of drinks, the unnamed Glaive moved back into the shadow of his friends, whilst Crowe moved up to face Gladio.

“Stop this,” Ignis said, striding into the fray, cutting the space between the drinking partners.

Crowe gave an elegant shrug. “He said he was going to drink us all under the table.”

He could feel Gladio at his back, trying to lean over him to reach for his next drink. Ignis ignored him in favor of chastising the woman in front of him.

“And perhaps he could have _were_ he not alone. “

His eyes were a fierce burn, daring Crowe or any of the Glaive to stand against him. This was the tone and look he employed with Noctis when he meant to be firm and unyielding. Though it didn’t elicit the same sort of obeisance to which he was accustomed, Crowe didn’t immediately reply and a murmur traversed through the collected grouping of Kingsglaive.

“He wasn’t alone when he started,” Crowe explained, kicking the toe of her boot into the side of one of the Crownsguard who was, presumably, sleeping off his drunkenness on the floor beneath one of the tablets.

“Nonetheless,” Ignis knew his looks to be inscrutable and knew that people often caved beneath the heaviness of his stare. He waited her out, an immovable object, which kept Gladio from his drink and the Kingsglaive from Gladiolus' body.

Eventually Crowe waived him off. “Fine then,” she said. “We won anyway.”

“The hell you did,” Gladio from behind him was as strong and solid as Ignis’ resolve and Ignis offered a dirty look over his shoulder, which did nothing to quell the older man. “I had it in the bag.”

“The only thing you had in the bag,” Ignis said smoothly “was a speedy decent towards alcohol poisoning”.

The crowd dispersed from around the tables. There was nothing to see after Crowe and the others turned and left. Without the spectacle, there was no reason to stay and listen to Gladio’s basso hum proclaiming that he hadn’t lost the contest or that the Glaive were walking away scared. These weak protestations were lost to the sound of glasses clinking below, and cheers around them.

“Fuck,” Gladio tossed his weight into the nearest chair, shaking the battered stool on two of its legs. “Way to show me up, Iggy.”

He attempted a glare, but wilted under severity of Ignis’ own. A terse silence followed.  Just inside his line of vision, the portion of his interest not entirely drawn up in Gladio, caught Nyx hovering on the edge of their conversation, shifting on his heels.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you,” Nyx offered, tentative steps bringing him into his and Gladio’s space. “That was kind of a show, Ignis,”

“S’ a pain in my ass,” Gladio slurred, picking up the thread of Nyx’s conversation effortlessly despite the drunkenness. “Don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

Faced with the chastisement of two men he respected, and certain he was in the right, Ignis was brutal in his reply, turning his back on Gladiolus as he readied his ammunition. “And who will fight the prince’s battles,” he inquired. “If his shield is so sozzled he can barely stand?”

Ignis could not face Gladio after having tethered himself to such a line of reasoning. It was a very risky thing to employ but his nerves were not nearly so sharp as they normally were, under the influence himself. He reached for surety rather than tact. Unwilling or unable to turn, Ignis watched Nyx’s reaction instead, the flicker of his eyes on Gladio, the widening of the pupils. If his reaction was anything to go on, then Gladio was angry in earnest.

He could hear the chair scrape behind him, a quick flash of wood against hard flooring; fury manifesting. The heat was at his back once more, the furnace that was Gladio hovering near, but saying nothing. A large hand pressed into his shoulder and spun him, bringing him face to face with his quarry. Ignis stood his ground, staring through his lashes to give Gladio as good as he got, the ferocity of the shields look matched only by his own.

“Watch it,” he warned. “If you’re trying to rile me up, it’s working.”

Ignis tilted is head and considered. He was embarrassed that he’d gone to such lengths to sober Gladio. Bringing Noctis into the dialog was a low blow, despite the intent. Still, the exchange left Ignis feeling as if he had something to prove, pride winning out in the form of retort. “Are we to come to blows,” he heard himself say. “A brawl in a bar? How quaint.”

Nyx split the space between them, a shimmering light that had his hand pressed upon both their chests, firmly separating them.

“No one is fighting anyone, not on my watch.”

Gladio scoffed, displacing Nyx’s hand with a quick brush of his own. “I wouldn’t hurt _him_ if my life depended on it, but _you_ , you put your hands on me again and that’s going to be a different conversation. Drunk or not.”

Ignis felt rooted to the spot. There was vehemence in Gladio’s words, truly, the tide of his rage like a thread pulled taut, with more than an implied threat to Nyx that hung pregnant in the air. Still, there was so much open honesty in his words that it felt like an admission. It softened Ignis, made him malleable and more agreeable.

“Gladio,” he called, soft but firm. “Let me help you home.”

XXI.

Gladio was a heavy weight at his side and despite having told Nyx he could handle him, Ignis sagged beneath his heaviness. After two blocks, to right them both, he chose to lean Gladio’s body against the nearest wall, attempting to catch his bearings, shaking out the isometric contractions which had built up in his arms as he shouldered Gladio’s weight down a series of long, narrow streets.

“M’still mad at you, but if you wanted me against a wall, all you had to do is ask,” Gladio spoke, half lidded eyes presenting a comely picture of debauchery. His head rest back against the wall, the tan line of his throat bared and bronze beneath Ignis’ gaze. Ignis was upended, what had transpired between them, the fight in the bar, had lit a fire in him that he hadn’t known was possible. He’d been so invested, so sure of mission, so sure with wanting to protect Gladio from himself that it had confused his already confused feelings. Ignis tried to ignore what feelings were stirred in him, and instead focus on the distance between their current location and the street Gladio lived on. It was a difficult, precarious navigation, one which was impugned by his own inebriation, thoughts on what had transpired only minutes before and Gladio’s more profound level of intoxication, but he was trying.

During the time where he tried to make heads or tails of his internal compass, he made a small concession in allowing himself the temerity to stare at the man in front of him. In this state Gladio hardly noticed and Ignis believed he could make a million little memories on which he could spend a hundred nights over thinking. _He’s lovely_ , Ignis thought, _and exasperating_ , not only the corded muscles of him but the soft, downy hairs of his arms, the ripe rose of his lips, the casual way he presented a challenge and the passion which seeped from his every pore. He was something otherworldly and Ignis felt too riled for Gladio’s relaxed teasing.

“None of that, “he managed. “I’m attempting to get you home. It would be nice if you were help rather than a hindrance.”

Gladio smiled, a low spread of a grin which added to the tension in Ignis’ stomach. Alongside a racing heart, it was clear his body was rebelling against him. It was unfair that the man could reduce Ignis to his baser desires but he was becoming more well versed in divorcing his logical mind from more carnal notions the more often they were together.

“You were mean,” Gladio drawled, as low and slow as that predatory grin of his. “You deserve everything you get.” Taking in a long, slow breath, he continued. “Once we get home, what are you gonna do with me?”

“Stop, “Ignis warned. “Before you say something we both shall regret.”

The air was knocked out of him before he could fully consider what had happened. For a moment Ignis wondered if he could hurt him, or if he would, despite what he’d told Nyx. Gladio changed their positions with an effortless shifting of weight, so swift and so sudden an adjustment that Ignis was surprised that Gladio had managed it in his inebriated state. With his back now against the wall, and Gladio pressed very firmly against his front, Ignis struggled with what to do. Perusing his emotions left him physically incapacitated for the second time this evening, tense moments stretching out in a way which seemed to defy time. All he knew was that there was but a hairbreadth between them. As he breathed out, so he breathed Gladiolus in, the intensity of amber eyes keeping him fixed and still.

When he finally moved, he pressed up, into the arms that held him against the wall; a demand for more or a frail attempt at getting away was unclear but there was no room for the complacency of stillness. “Let me up,” he demanded, wrecked by the quaver he could hear in his own voice.

Gladio moved his hands from Ignis’ shoulders slowly, releasing where he’d held him fixed against the wall. His fingers moved down his long line of his arms, skipping like stones upon still water, until they encircled his wrists. There was power there, but little demand. If Ignis wanted to be free of him, it would have been easy enough to do so.  “Gonna have to ask me again,” he said, thumbs rubbing a slow circle over the top of his hands. “If that’s what you really want.”

Wanting, Ignis thought, was the problem in the first place. If only wanting were as easily dismissed or cast aside as most distractions tended to be. This was not the case here, pressed chest to chest with Gladio, this time more intimate and infinitely more dangerous than it had been when they were arguing. This was a scenario he’d imagined numerous times, but the moment was so much more powerful and visceral than his dreams could ever conjure. Ignis could not speak; nor could he give voice to what he wanted. Instead, he pressed closer, flexing and rolling his wrists to give him the purchase to take hold of Gladio’s in turn. He pressed blunted nails into the softness of the other man’s wrists, digging half-moons into the delicate skin he found there. A hiss of acknowledgement emboldened Ignis who stared on, unapologetic now.

They hovered upon the edge of something, Ignis knew. They could stop now. In the morning, perhaps Gladio would forget this ever happened, that any of this night had ever taken place. In the morning, Ignis could make excuses for poor behavior across the evening and do the cowardly thing in feigning inebriation as the cause of his sudden and ill-advised come on. But he refused. For now, he was weightless and wanting and as Gladio’s head came to rest in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, heavy breath warm against Ignis’ neck, he surrendered utterly.

Without those eyes on him Ignis relaxed in increments, gradually loosening his grip on Gladio, hands. When they were free, he allowed them to travel, one exploring the dip of the older man’s back, while the other tentatively threaded itself amongst the loose strands of dark hair. He breathed and shuddered, the rise of his chest reflected in the rise of Gladio’s, as well. Warm, chapped lips traced the line of his jaw and Ignis shut his eyes tightly.

“Never hurt you,” Gladio murmured against Ignis’ jaw, lips laying him asunder in an onslaught of chaste, sweet kisses. “Can’t say the same for you, though. Damn if you don’t cut deep.”

Gladio raised his head as his hips shifted, sliding them against the line of Ignis’ body. There was a pressure between his legs, a knee, which pressed upwards between his legs and Ignis’ keened, unconsciously disturbing their balance.

They kissed without meaning to, the crash of their lips inelegant from the upset of equilibrium. They found their timing without any great loss. Ignis’ mouth opened, primed to apologize when Gladio’s lips fell upon his. They were chapped. He tasted of alcohol and the afterburn of something rich, honeyed and heavy. He savored, a curious flick of the tongue which led to a merry chase, tongues tangling in earnest pursuit. He’d imagined this moment but the reality was so much sweeter and stranger. He kissed him until his sides ached, and his chest burned for want of clear air and clearer breath. He pulled gently on Gladio’s hair, willing the other man to look at him. “Let me up,’ he requested a second time, resolve back in his voice.

Gladio looked confused and unsure. He disliked having put that expression there. Even as he moved aside, out and away from his body, he reached for the curve of his jaw. He traced the line of it until the arc of his cheekbone was beneath the tips of his fingers. He stroked the shape in what he hoped was reassurance, making a tactile memory for himself. “We’ll not continue this in an alleyway. There are rules and decency to consider.”

With faint amusement, and the confusion wiped clean from his face, Gladio smiled. “Then lead the way.”


	12. Interlude: Nyx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is an experiment. If you guys respond well to this interlude, similar ones from different characters POV’s (they’ll be few and far between) will be included here. If not, then I might make them side stories connected to this work. Opinions? Flames? Favors? Wanting to given Nyx a lot of alcohol and/or hugs?
> 
> I am humbled by the great response this has gotten. Every comment is like a gift to me and soothes my crazy mind. 
> 
> Come talk to me, about FFXV or anything else @ ofthekingsglaive

I.

Nyx had been accused of casual nihilism before. It wasn’t true, he had morals. They were just far more selective than most peoples. In his life, death and destruction dogged his very steps, it made him live life in a way where if he wanted something he sought it out, or he took it; no apologies. There were no consequences to think over, not when tomorrow was hardly guaranteed and what you wanted could be snatched away at a moment’s notice. He didn’t equivocate and he didn’t second guess. When he wanted something particular to eat, he bought it. When a new blade caught his eye, he found a way to lay hand on it. If he wanted a friend, he found one. When he wanted to fuck, he did. It was that simple and that complex. With Nyx what you saw was largely what you got, a smart mouth, a handsome face and an addiction to heroics and danger. It was with some surprise that Nyx found that he wanted something that he didn’t immediately try to take.

Ignis Scientia was not his type. He was lanky where Nyx preferred muscular. He was smart mouthed, but in a smarmy sort of way that made it seem as if he was mentally your superior. He was built for speed, not force. He was anal retentive, not loose and free. He was guarded, too, which was something that usually made Nyx immediately distrustful. But there were other parts of him, contrasts, which made Nyx give a second look, then a third, and escalating numbers thereafter.

He was pretty, for one, jade green eyes which were always sharp in their acuity, always looking _at_ him, rather than beyond him. He was surprisingly generous, both with his time and consideration. The day he’d given Ignis the daggers from Galahd and Ignis had treated them like a treasure rather than something to be tossed about, he’d had his full attention. And like the man himself, who never stopped going, Nyx’s interest never waxed nor waned.

Having figured himself out in short order, he was ready to take a leap. Ignis was not a man to date lightly, he knew that. He didn’t need to check or slip into subterfuge. No one had ever seen Ignis in anyone’s company besides the royal retinue or, more recently, the Glaive. There were no whispers of what he did behind closed doors. In fact, any chatter he heard was rather disparaging, laden with name calling and judgement. He’d have felt for Ignis, if he’d have thought that other people’s perceptions would have given the other man a moment of pause. As it was, Ignis seemed contented in his role, if overworked and over tired. Still, with this knowledge in hand, Nyx was certain that Ignis was an all or nothing man. If Nyx wanted a shot with him he’d have to do the gentlemanly thing and give him all or nothing. 

He started with flirting. Ignis was always quick to respond in kind, quick wit at the ready, an extension of his very being. Nothing changed. He tried touching him more casually, certain this would elicit a reaction. It hadn’t. He was more purposeful in his touch and looks, but that only gave him subtle, physical tells like a raised brow which, in actuality, told him nothing other than that Ignis was aware that something had happened. When he couldn’t employ any more indirect signs that he liked the man, he resolved to tell him, at the prince’s party. It was best to do these things in a casual setting, not when holding swords. He’d tried that once and still had scars for his trouble. Dashing though he was with devil may care blemishes, he was content with the number he already had.

Everyone was at the prince’s shindig. Ignis stuck out like a sore thumb, usually, so Nyx didn’t count on missing him. Surprising him again, Ignis opted for something more casual in his clothing. It was in the cling of less structured pants, to a well-defined backside, the cut of a shirt with one less button at the neck secured and closed. It was a good look on him and the clothes only ironed his resolve. When he started drinking, however, it threw Nyx. For a man he’d never seen without control to throw caution to the wind intrigued him. He didn’t want to interrupt it, he wanted to see where it went.

“Luche’s started a drinking game,” Tredd said, surprising him as he slung an arm over his shoulder from behind. “Glaive versus Crownsgaurd. We’re gonna eat em’ alive. You in?”

It was probably true, and normally Nyx would have been all over the opportunity, but he had somewhere to be and someone to be with if everything worked out the way he wanted it to. “Not tonight, “he said, shrugging off the embrace with a genial shake of the head. “Better things to do, but try to keep Libertus from embarrassing us.”

Tredd frowned, nonplussed at the refusal. It was uncommon that Nyx refused his brothers in arms anything. “Better things?”

“Nothing like that.” With a quick glance behind, ensuring that Ignis was still exactly where he’d last seen him, he gave Tredd a shove and stepped beside him. “Ten minutes, tops, let’s see what kind of shit you guys go us into”.

II.

The drinking game, if one could have called it that, was an all-out free for all. The Glaive were far greater in number, to start with, and the Crownsguard were composed of a lot blowhards who couldn’t hold their liquor. They talked a good game but a couple of shots in saw bodies dropping to the floor, or grown men rocking on their feet as they tried and failed to stand straight. They weren’t accustomed to tavern swill, that was for fucking sure, and the Glaive did what the Glaive usually did, took advantage of a situation and run with it; victory at all costs. Nyx gave a quick look at the participants. The Glaive circle had Libertus leading the charge, Crowe at the right, with Tredd bounding back into group after having found and procured Nyx. Axis Arra was swigging back a drink as Sonitus, behind him, prepared to be the next drinker. He couldn’t see Luche, but he knew he was there, likely pulling the strings as any man who figured himself a puppet master of men, might. In the Crownsguard group, only Gladiolus Amicitia stood tall. He was taking his drink like a champ, but no one could hold off a group of five or more, drink for drink, and live to tell the tale.

He didn’t know Amicitia well, or at all. Their paths crossed but they gave each other the berth that was expected of their stations in life. Nyx was a transplant and a solider and Gladio was part of that circular royal sphere that didn’t seem to interact much outside itself. Sure, they might have shared a warrior’s sentimentality, but their life paths were very different. What he knew of the man came from one, prolonged, training about a year ago and what Ignis offered when he spoke about him. Nyx frowned, turning on his heel. Someone had to stop Gladio before he got into trouble and though people proclaimed Nyx a hero, loudly, it wasn’t a mantle he broadcasted nor was he in the position to play the role for a man he barely knew. He recalled the way that Ignis had spoken about him and about the Prince when their training had started and decided that involving him would serve twofold, find and secure Ignis and keep a dear friend of his upright, a win-win, really.

III.

Nyx brought Ignis into the bar, navigating them through a bramble of chairs and people, leading him by the elbow. He’d found the man atop a balcony and though it had taken him a little coaxing to get him back down to earth, it had taken none to convince him to Gladio’s aid. Ignis was fully on task from the moment he’d told him what was going on and he strode into the fray as brave any knight Nyx had ever seen. No one stood up to Crowe like that, not even him, let alone managed to do so in a way that had her backing down without complaint. He diffused the situation brilliantly, then took Gladio to task.

There was a spark, a fire, in the way the Ignis and Gladio related. He’d never seen anything like it. It was simultaneously thrilling and disconcerting, immovable object versus immovable object, their voices hushed jabs. It was almost like watching a fight unfold, one opponent taking the opportunity to put all his weight into a punch, while the other stood and took it, only for the opponent doing the pummeling and the one taking the hit to shift and change within the blink of an eye. It was fascinating and he was content to watch it go on until the peril of violence had him putting solid hands on both of their chests.

“No one is fighting anyone, not on my watch.”

Ignis didn’t need him. He’d been a competent fighter when they’d begun training and, over time, he’d become a brilliant tactician in the way he operated a blade and the ferocity with which he wielded it. He was good on his own, but if Amicitia thought he was going to take pot shots at Ignis in his company, he’d have another things coming. He’d have done this for any friend, but for Ignis he’d have done more, and without a second thought.

“I wouldn’t hurt _him_ if my life depended on it,” Gladio said, “But you, you put your hands on me again and that’s going to be a different conversation. Drunk or not.”

Nyx wasn’t scared. For one, though Amicitia had weight on him, he was hardly at his best. Second, he had the benefit of being able to warp. Even in a small space the ability to disappear and reappear at will was a hell of an advantage and one Nyx wasn’t beyond exploiting. He was ready to start with words, though, smart mouth already forming a reply, but he noticed his face. He noticed the way Gladio was looking at Ignis, not him, and the fondness and longing there was raw and vulnerable. He knew that face. He’d seen it in the mirror. He reasoned he could be content with such a rivalry, but then he noticed Ignis’ face and reached an uncomfortable epiphany.

All his good intentions were meaningless. The barest hint of his planning was wasted time. He hadn’t had a chance in the world with Ignis; he just hadn’t known it. Ignis was open in a way that Nyx had never seen him when he looked at Gladio, a softer underbelly exposed, if only for a moment, when he told Gladio he’d take him home. He cared for him. He’d known that when he went to employ his help to keep Gladio from embarrassing himself or worse, but this wasn’t that. This was a look of a man who spent way too much time considering another, yearning and care etched upon what were usually stern features. This was love, maybe, or something like it. Damn.

III.

He’d offered to take Gladio home. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was a last-ditch effort to separate the two, a fruitless one. They’d both declined. Gladio was hovering in the delicious state of drunkenness in which you were clearly losing you faculties but didn’t know it. This was usually followed by being violently sick. Either way, Nyx was envious. Gladio hovered near a set of stairs, holding on to the doorframe for balance, as Ignis made his way back to talk to him. He wished he wouldn’t, if just for tonight, but he stood and waited not wanting to draw attention his own disappointment.

“Thank you,” Ignis said. “For involving me in this. I cannot apologize enough for his poor behavior, there’s no excuse for threats, none whatsoever. I’ll be sure to inform Gladiolus he owes you an apology when he’s back in control of himself.”

“No need. We get drunk. We all say stupid shit we don’t mean.”

Ignis’ look shifted from one of embarrassment to gratefulness but the line of his lips was still thin in consideration. “Nonetheless.”

“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you,” Nyx continued, jabbing a thumb in Gladio’s direction. “He’s two sixty, two sixty-five of dead weight you’ll be carrying. You sure you’ve got this?”

Ignis shifted, flexing his hands, long fingers balling into fits. “I’ve the requisite strength, but thank you.” Ignis turned to look back at Gladio and for a minute Nyx could not see his eyes. He assumed the expression mirrored the one he’d seen earlier and didn’t need to see it. It was enough to have seen it the once. 

“I can see why they call you hero,” Ignis said, addressing Nyx again. “It was very heroic to get between the prince’s advisor and shield without thought for life or limb. You’re either very brave or very foolish, I’m having difficulty discerning which it is.”

“Maybe it’s both. “Nyx stepped closer. “Don’t call me hero, Ignis, that’s for them, for the Glaive, not for you.”

Confusion crossed his features. “If not hero, then?”

“Friend, just call me your friend. All that stuff tonight, it’s what friends do for other friends.” He tried then for flippant. “If you’d have fallen off the balcony I have tried to catch you. Friends do that, too.“

Ignis gave the impression of being caught off guard, awed. It was the second expression he’d worn this evening that Nyx had never seen before. “I…Nyx…we _are_ friends. Of course, we are friends. I don’t count myself as having many, but I’m proud to be yours. I’m grateful to hear you feel the same.”

Open earnestness made Nyx uncomfortable, particularly after finding out that Ignis had feelings for someone else. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders back, anything to keep this conversation from turning much more serious or too maudlin. “Then we’re square. You’ve got my back and I’ve got yours.”

“Without hesitation.”

Ignis turned to leave, meeting Gladio at the door in several long steps. He slipped his arms around his waist and gently tugged at the man who fell willingly into step beside him. They looked good together, the height difference, the calm composition and the blunt opposition. He watched them go, feeling a swirl of discontent, some jealousy and some longing of his own go with them. It had been a long time since Nyx had been taken in by someone, led by a handsome face and a good, committed heart. He liked Ignis, but he had looked and liked from afar before. It was painful, sometimes, and annoying, always. But he’d get over it. He always had rallied from disappointment with ease.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahoy! *puts on captains hat*
> 
> Thank you so much for your fantastic feedback. It truly keeps me motivated to continue writing. Every kudo, and especially every comment, makes me such a happy panda. Please continue to feed the writer. 
> 
> Oh yes, I love these assholes more and more each day.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive. It can be about FFXV or anything else, too. I’m friendly, I swear. 
> 
> Unbeted, so all errors are completely my fault. You have my sincerest apologies.

XXII.

By the time Ignis and Gladio reached the other man’s home, he was sweating profusely. He was unkempt, his hair sticking up at odd, peaked angles. He peered up at the larger man with mild annoyance. It was impossible, he reasoned, to be well and truly annoyed when one had been so thoroughly, so beautifully, kissed. The memory of Gladio’s mouth was so recent that he dared to lick his own lips, chasing the taste, only to find that it was gone. “You’re heavy,” Ignis said, irritation coloring his voice.

“Think I’m gonna hurl.”

“Lovely.”

Whatever romanticism he’d thought to allow himself quickly turned to the situation at hand. He rushed them over the threshold of the Amicitia manor, fumbling with keys Gladio passed hastily into his hands. He had little time to take in his surroundings. Ignis found that the estate was palatial and meticulous. Everything seemed to have a purpose and a place, and he was somewhat perplexed to find that this was where and how Gladiolus lived.

“Left, next to the stairs,” Gladio led, his face drawn tighter and warier with each step.

“If you’re sick on me, I shall never forgive you.”

“You’re all charm, Iggy.”

They made it to the bathroom. Gladio hovered, as if he was going to be ill, just as Ignis had suspected he might be. His body was primed and Ignis was torn about whether to let him suffer alone for have drunken to excess or not. It wasn’t much of a choice, not really, as he watched the muscles of Gladio’s back tense and contort, the line of his arms flexing as nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He disliked the look of discomfort or pain on anyone, a strange sort of gentleness in a man who so clearly compartmentalized his emotions to appear without them, but the depth of his care ran deeper at certain points of time. And with certain people.

He reached for him slowly, as one would something feral, letting the flat of his hand touch the small of Gladiolus’ back. At first, he did nothing, the weight of touch solid and motionless. Gradually he began to sweep his hand upwards as he made small, soothing circles with his fingers. He whispered soft, meaningless little words meant to indulge and soothe.

There was a hum from below, Gladio’s body quieting beneath his hands. When he was sure that the other man wasn’t to be sick, he removed them. Gladio turned a look over his shoulder, golden eyes meeting green, and Ignis was at once stone cold sober at the openness he found in the other’s eyes.

“You’re good at that,” Gladio offered, his voice rough.

“At?”

A slow smile spread across Gladio’s features, languid as a summers day. “Caring for people.”

He smiled faintly in reply. Dealing with Gladio left him responding in kind, more oft than naught; a smile begot a smile. “Yes, well,” he began. “Years of practice.”

Gladio wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rolling his body to press his back against the line of the nearest wall. He looked a little less for wear, a thin line of sweat beading his brow. There was a light pallor to his skin and he swallowed harder than a person normally might, but he held himself so casually that had Ignis not known the cause of his duress, he might simply have thought Gladio had gone for a long run. “You ever wish you didn’t?”

Ignis didn’t answer. It was a question which had far too many variables and he was still processing everything that had happened over the course of the evening. There were also too many disparities and complications in such an inquiry. No one had ever asked him if he wanted to serve. He was procured and placed. He had never questioned. Over time, when he might have thought to do so, he found that the things that he was expected to do were both things that interested him and things which he wanted to do. He wouldn’t trade Noctis for all the gold in Insomnias banks. He wouldn’t trade the memory of Gladio’s lips on his, so warm and so inviting, for the whole of Eos. It was a good life, regardless of how he’d come by it. He was content to use his talents to make the most of it. He wanted to be of service.

To fill the silence, he turned away, raiding the medicine cabinet until he found a small healing potion. He took a glass from the side of the sink, grateful for its presence, and filled it with water. He offered them both to Gladio, looking down at him, surprised when he didn’t take them. “You’ll need this for the morning,” he insisted. “Though you may have avoided being sick, I believe you’ll have a hangover, regardless. Do yourself the favor and be wise in seeking to prevent it”.

Instead, Gladio responded with a silence of his own. He reached for Ignis’ ankle, callused but surprisingly gentle fingers tracing the curve of the bone there, mimicking the slow circles that Ignis had just drawn on his back. The touch surprised, and Ignis let free an undignified gasp, unable to stop the sound simply because it had done so.

There was nothing erotic about _this_ touch. It was skin against skin but hardly sexual, nothing needy or desirous. It held nothing of the primal ferocity of their kiss in that alleyway. Still, Gladio watched him with those heavily lidded eyes and he felt at sea. There was the capacity for something in the strength of his regard and the fact that he was purposefully touching Igins, stroking and calming. In but a single moment their situations had flipped and reversed. His heart hammered him his chest, a flightless bird beating on the bars of an ornate cage.

“What are you playing at,” he queried. His hands shook. To disguise it, he moved to place what he held on the tiled ledge, needing to curl his fingers into his hands, feeling and flexing to gain the back the control he so favored.

“We playing a game?” Self-satisfaction filled the elder man’s expression. “Am I winning?”

A hand stole up his pants leg, walking up the line of his calf until the resistance of material had Gladio pulling away. He was quick to his feet, then, the economy of his movement a heady surprise that had them face to face, the only disparity their height. Ignis shook his head, trying to turn it aside only to find Gladio stopping him, fingers affixing to his chin, guiding him back into the moment.

“You want me,” Gladio said, matter of fact.

“Do I, now?” Admitting it felt like some great sin, through it was true, and concealment was unlikely given what had already passed between them. It did not help that he responded so intently, merely by the slightest of touches. The hand on his face drew his attention; surrender was imminent. He pressed further into the other man’s grip, demanding greater access, which was given immediately, as if intimacy were the easiest thing in the world. Though Gladio then released his chin, he hovered near, certain of Ignis’ attention.

“Think so, yeah.”

Ignis’ eyes traced his friends face. They were close again, close enough for Ignis to take stock of the flush of his face, the laziness of his speech, the largeness of his eyes. These could be the effects of alcohol in as much as lust but Gladio was just so earnest that somehow he doubted it. Ignis considered, counting the moments in which they did nothing but occupy the very same space, pressed against each other.

This time Ignis was the one to kiss Gladio. He touched him like glass, like something breakable. The fears of the alleyway were sharper and realer under the influence and austerity of bright halogen. He was sober now, and Gladio, though still under the influence, was in greater control of himself. It revivified all manner of iniquitous ideas. He could not hide his awe in shadow, nor the blush which crawled up his neck and spread across cheeks. There was no traffic to drown out the softness of his moan, even as he exhaled the sound of it into the other man’s mouth. He kissed him slowly, licking past the seam of his mouth, expecting Gladio to come to his senses and stop him from continuing. The soft acceptance of Gladio’s tongue, instead, flat and careless against his own, was a wordless contradiction to what he’d expected.

Ignis wrapped both his arms around Gladio, holding him tight about the waist. He realized, belatedly, as he pulled Gladio to him, his back colliding hard with the tiled sink, that this was the first time in his life he’d taken anything without thought of outcome. It scared him immensely. In his fear his grip faltered, the solidity of the kiss and the heaviness at his back the only thing grounding him. Gladio’s hands skimmed over his sides, gracefully displacing his hold. It was fine, blissful even, when those hands slid beneath his shirt, level over what parts of his hips were not covered, finding the sweeping lacuna between cloth and skin.

“Gladio,” he whispered his name but his breath stuttered, teeth clacking together as he tried to stop what was an overload of sensation.  His skin was hot, and not from the exertion of having led Gladio home. His mouth tasted of him. His skin remembered fingers which had only just touched him. What parts of him not explored by nimble touch ached to know the same delight. His eyes saw tanned skin through the haze of his own lashes, a mass of brown waves tangled with sweat, and the golden shimmer of light eyes, so like dawn, to which he was inexorably drawn.

“Turn ‘round.”

His voice was pitched low, challenging but undemanding. Ignis’ compliance or lack thereof put wherever this was going on hold, but still Gladio’s hands traced over the lower part of his belly, nails skirting at the edge of his button fly like a promise. He was waiting, and Ignis hovered in a place made of apprehension and indecision, defying their obvious magnetism. If he was to turn, what then? If he decided not to, would it all fade away into nothingness as if it had never been there at all?

“Yes,” he said aloud, assenting to the request. There was no reason to speak, but, as he turned, his mouth bereft of contact, he found he needed something for it to do. Intoxication was heavy in his brain, not the full sensation of alcohol but the sharp neediness of desire. Ignis stared at their reflection in the bathroom mirror, a study in contrasts. He was wrecked, his shirt rucked up to expose the pale line of his stomach, the button fly of his slacks undone by quick fingers, the peek of his excitement evident, straining against dark fabric. Gladio stood tall against his back, and as he looked ahead to watch them, Ignis noticed his eyes were darker than he’d ever seen them. Lust, then, he concluded.

For a moment, they stood steady, unmoving, Gladio’s palm was but a warm weight across his belly. His nose edged at the corner of Ignis’ jaw, stubble as lazy as his hands, scratching across the ridge of his chin, adding more sensation to a situation in which he was already overstimulated. His eyes fluttered closed, banishing the picture of the two of them, pressed against each other so intimately, from his sight. It hovered, however, strident, even in the darkness, and Ignis knew with pure certainty that it would forever be emblazoned on his consciousness, at the ready whenever he needed.

From behind he heard the harsh rush of rustled fabric, the low thrum of a zipper being pulled down. He felt his own pants move, material dragging over his hips, leaving his ass exposed. Then the generous hardness of skin against skin, the rigidity of Gladio's erection which pressed firmly against the swell of his ass and his hot breath brushing the back of his neck, which started something real. He felt transfixed, transmuted and other, as Gladio’s name became a litany spoken from a dry mouth. Each word which passed, filling the small room, became a cantata of muted curses and sharper breath. As Gladiolus’ hand reached into the confines of Ignis’ trousers, gripping him unevenly, Ignis could not even find it within himself to mind the roughness of it. He wanted the closeness in a way he’d never wanted anything before. This wanting was surer than that which was done without hope of follow through. It would hurt more, too, were things to change come morning.

“Gladio, please.”

He was unsure what it was he was begging for, and there was nothing else to call it besides begging. Pride had no place here. He was but a miasma of want and need, the mere idea of further thought anathema to him. It was as unfamiliar a feeling as it was a beautiful one. The shield’s hand took him apart with slow strokes, a flick of the wrist which wrenched him free from his pants, followed by the heaviness of a palm which skimmed the length of him from root to tip, shameless.

The angle was inelegant but the impression of callused fingers smearing wetness at the head of his cock sent Ignis sprawling, canting his hips forward, pressing his length deeper into the circle of Gladio’s awaiting hand. Behind, Gladio’s hardness slipped past the cleft of his ass, slipping and chasing the friction that could be found in the interstice of his buttocks. The sound of skin, wet and fast, and the push and pull of them - Ignis into Gladio warm hand and Gladio sliding towards his most intimate of places, gave way to hyper awareness of how close they both were. As if Gladio sensed this too, his hand began a shorter, more brutal application of fingers, jerking him off with a wildness which was just this shy of painful. He heard himself as he fell, literally against the counter, bracing himself on his hands, and figurately, as the splash of his come hit the hard surface of the mirror. He blinked, eyes opening wide, seeing just enough to watch as Gladio reached his peak, just moments after him. He felt it, too, in the shake and judder of the man’s hips against his, in the telltale wetness against the back of his thighs. He couldn’t bring himself to care, messy though it was. Lips danced at his nape, an open-mouthed kiss which fluttered soft against the vertebrae of his neck.

“Stay,” Gladio purred, still warm and heavy against his back. “Stay tonight. Don’t think about it; say yes.”

“Yes.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me and the amount of time it’s taking to write these chapters. Thank you also for being so unfailingly kind with your comments. They literally fuel my writing and I cannot tell you how many nuggets of ideas have come forth because something someone said inspired something else. So, please, keep letting me know what you are thinking. 
> 
> Also, I realized in responding to so many of you on my phone, I’ve had so many autocorrect fails that I sound like an idiot. So, I’ll be editing those, just for my own anal retentiveness. My apologies.
> 
> No beta-licious. So, obviously none of the boys go loco. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Come talk to me @ ofthekingsglaive

XXIII.

There was a sense of awkwardness in Ignis after what had transpired between him and Gladio. For one, he’d never felt so relaxed. It was an odd sensation to one who was so used to feeling the nervousness of being on edge constantly. This repose gave way to a tentativeness in how he moved and acted. A protracted slowness pervaded every moment. Gladio handed him a dampened cloth with which to clean himself and another which was used to clean the mirror. He did so carefully, all the while peering at the older, taller man as if he was a curio in a cabinet. He’d had him intimately, but the meaning behind the act was uncertain, and Ignis was never comfortable outside the realm of perfect clarity.

“I got something on my face,” Gladio inquired.

Mortified, Ignis continued to wipe away at the mirror with circular strokes, pointedly tried to ignore that he’d been caught staring. He was usually better at the appearance of surreptitiousness but with Gladio he always seemed to blunder. He could not so easily hide behind his easy veneer of stoicism, perhaps responsive to Gladio’s complete and utter ingenuousness, or simply too enamored to bother.

“My apologies, Gladiolus.”

Gladio’s hand reached for his, stopping Ignis’ movement, pulling his smaller hand into his own.

“I don’t know how you do it. But you do it,” he said.

Their fingers tangled briefly, bringing their hands into closer contact, palm to palm. Gladio raised them to the light, as if to study them. The contrast was clear - pale and dark, slender and thick, unmarred and peppered with offset joints. Ignis noticed these things and marveled at their contrast, the strangeness of their fit and imperfections.

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“I know you don’t,” Gladio smirked. “But I just had my dick up your ass; I was thinking you’d just call me Gladio.”

Ignis tore his hand away, shaking his head. “And you might think to quell your brutishness.”

The smirk slipped into rough laughter, shaking Gladio’s shoulders with the force of his mirth. He never did anything by haves, Ignis knew, decidedly less amused than his counterpart, but still admiring of his qualities.

“Considered it, not really my thing.”

“You’d be substantially more charming,” Ignis offered. “Were to think before you spoke. If you didn’t let free every fool thought which came into your head.”

“I’m doing okay with charm,” Gladio flirted. “Charmed you, didn’t I?”

“Did you?”

“Are you just gonna keep making questions out of things we both already know the answer to?”

He said nothing, hedging, as he refused to make the mistake of misinterpreting the other man’s meaning or intent.

“I _told_ you that you wanted me and you questioned it,” Gladio’s expression assessed him openly. “ _I_ knew you did. _You_ knew you did. So, why deny it?”

He stilled, caught off guard by the bluntness of his question. His eyes looked away, downcast, studying the polished tiles of a bright, white floor. Why did he deny what he knew to be to be true? He was terrible at concealing his attraction, that much was clear, but what was the harm in letting such attraction be known? He could compose a treatise on diplomacy; he was the youngest man to have ever graduated the King’s College. He was eloquence and astuteness, trusted by the crown and prized for his intellect. He could cook a soufflé without it’s falling. He could keep a house. He was a fine driver. He was an upstanding citizen at an age in which most were considering what their futures might look like rather than settling into the role. There was no acumen, no knowledge of any kind, which had been beyond him, except this. He found that he didn’t wish to look up, too fixed in his own head to allow Gladio’s penetrating gaze the opportunity to lay him barer than he’d already been.

 “It’s okay, Iggy,” Gladio said, assuaging his fear with a tease. “I want you, too.”

His mind mapped a myriad of connections, the usage of the present tense of want being at the forefront of his consideration. He was consumed with him, with the thought of him, a heady delight which was furthered by, though not defined by, their recent physical intimacy. Gladio pulled him from reverie, wrapping an arm about his waist as he pulled him close to his side.

“Since you’re gonna stay. C’mon, let me give you the tour.”

Falling into step beside Gladiolus was easy, despite the racing of his mind. There was a renewed ease guided by the familiarity of their friendship which facilitated the act of just being. If he stopped his mind from wandering, he could do this. He could be close to him; he could be near him if only he refused to let himself consider beyond the scope of a moment. He knew in his embarrassment at having certain feelings be known that he’d cast aside one of the people who was closest to him. It wasn’t an act he was proud of, moreover, it was not one he’d dare repeat. He had longed for the steady cadence of his voice, the certainty with which Gladio held everything, even the bawdy humor which was in turns exasperating and cherished had been missed. If tonight was only a brief interlude of intimacy, he promised himself that he could accept it if only he kept his head and remained close to him. He would not run as he had that day in the showers. He would meet whatever happened head on. He would refuse to lose him again through his own cowardice.

They walked through the quiet halls of the Amicitia manor, the sound of their footfalls interspersed with Gladio’s admission that neither Clarus nor Iris were scheduled to return home that evening, that they were unlikely to be disturbed. He ignored the rough pounding of his heart as Gladio called out points of interest. He guided them between halls and into rooms, an eloquent host, even as Ignis suspected that he noted things more for Ignis’ interest rather than the high points of design. He directed him hither and yon, a hand at his back sweeping them both into a rather extensive library. Books towered up long, walled shelves, books on history and battle and strategy in bracketed ledges with the delicacy of a trellis twining higher than could actually be seen. It was a truly awe inspiring display in much the same way that the house was a dizzying array of architecture and function. He found it fascinating.

“It’s my favorite room,” Gladio admitted. “Dad’s collected stuff from all over. A lot of interesting stuff. We keep adding, him and me and Iris. It’s got all kinds. “

“You do seem to have a little of everything,” Ignis agreed, drawing a pale finger down the spine of each book as he cataloged, momentarily distracted by the depth of the selection. “I wonder you had cause to visit the crown library at all with all this at your fingertips.”

“I had reasons.”

His hands lingered over a title before turning his eyes skyward, noticing the high moldings rich with lattice work, giving delicateness to a room otherwise overwhelmed with heavy, masculine tones. It was a distraction, so he did not linger too long about what those reasons might have been.

“You’ve a beautiful home,” Ignis noted.

“And you haven’t even seen _my_ room yet.”

As a reply meant to elicit a given reaction it was a sound one, but even though the words were meant to provoke there was only the slightest amount of teasing, the merest hint of heat. He paused, fingers hovering over the cover of a novel which was out of place on an otherwise alphabetized shelf. He reasoned with himself in silence, deciding this situation warranted a modicum of daring.

“Perhaps,” Ignis ventured “You could show me.”

XXIV.

Gladio’s rooms were warm, the antithesis of the cool composition in which Ignis lived. Everything was orderly, but carried a careless disheveled quality. It was likely Gladio could find anything he wanted, but a more casual observer would have trouble. Ignis faltered to make sense of stacks of impeccably folded clothing which sat _atop_ a dresser rather than _inside_ it. Like the man himself, the environment was rich and warm, and effortless. The walls were a deep, burnt sienna, the floor a darker brown hardwood which carried over from the rest of the house. Sheets of forest green crisply encased a large bed. Ignis became engrossed in getting to know Gladio’s habitat, acclimatizing himself to the way in which he lived and filling in gaps of knowledge which balanced what he already knew of the man and what he saw. He had been so occupied he’d almost missed him beginning to disrobe. It came as somewhat of a shock, when he turned, to find the thin strip of skin which exposed the line between the waist of Gladio’s pants and shirt directly in his line of vision.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t sleep in leather,” Gladio shrugged. “Chafes.”

The distance between them was certain but minimal. He was loath to clear it, but the urge to touch was strong. He took a single step and hesitated, watching him carefully. In the interim Gladio peeled away his shirt, baring his torso to the room. Ignis looked away.

“People look at me,” he continued. “Have for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t bother me. But with you, when I want you to look you’re always looking away, anywhere but at me.”

Ignis eyes snapped up. He wanted to tell him he’d been looking at him since he was ten, besotted even then, before he’d known what lust or longing or anything of its ilk felt like. He wanted to tell him that he watched with fondness all the times he sparred with Noctis, tough to a fault but infinitely more charitable than others might have been. He wanted to praise the acuity with which Gladio assessed him, but he didn’t. Instead, he tracked Gladio’s expression, shaped the curve of his jaw with the intensity of his gaze rather than with his hands. The hollow of his throat held interest, as did the lax swirl of his collarbone, the roundness of his shoulders. The lateral plains of chest and abdomen, particularly where they disappeared at the waist of his pants were scrutinized, too.

He pursed his lips, weighing the consequences of being honest. “I’m at a loss,” Ignis acknowledged. “Even with what’s happened thus far, I’m unsure of how to proceed.” Forthrightness bolstered what confidence he held, even in this place of insecurity, and he strode forward, surer than he had been seconds before.

“I can tell you with absolute certainty that objectfying you isn’t difficult, Gladio. Anyone might do that for you. You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful. I cannot see that you’ve ever wanted for admirers or that you ever will.”

Gladio’s eyes were wide and surprised but he didn’t share the same timidity when bringing them together. He fit his lips over Ignis’ with the same swiftness with which he swung a sword, pulling him into a brief, dry, kiss. Ignis yielded, allowing Gladio to draw him close, easily falling into the heat of his embrace. In the deep curve of his hands, in the brief handling of his fingers there was a brightness of something akin to fire which scalded from within, dragging up his spine, the feeling pulled through his belly.

The larger man stopped the kiss, and instead posed a question. “And if I didn’t want just anyone?”

The whole world could have fallen away in a span of instants, but even the cajoling insistence of Gladio hands on him could not keep Ignis from considering the meaning of that question. It laid in Gladio’s eyes, too, revealing an uncertainty in the other man that Ignis would never had never even considered. He did his best to prove his investment, pressing into the circle of his arms, taking his wrist in hand and drawing to his flank, waiting until those hands took initiative of their own, possessive at his hip, before letting go. He reveled in the closeness, inhaling deeply the scent which was unique unto Gladio, suede and steel; he surrounded himself in it. He let himself be led by the feeling of the warmth of his body.

“Then,” Ignis managed, laying his hand directly over Gladio’s heart. “Be clear in what you want.”

Beneath his fingers the thrum of Gladio’s heartbeat played and quickened, much to his surprise. The smallest smile graced his lips, a happy bit of disbelief that he could affect Gladio physically when he’d thought himself to be the only one reduced to reaction at a stretch of words or a single touch.

“I thought I was. I asked you to stay the night.”

Ignis mimicked the steady, pulsating tone of Gladio’s heart, tapping out the rhythm with the pads of his fingers. The flesh beneath his fingers was easy and slick and he found that he liked the interplay of speaking as he stroked over his chest. “Less implied,” he requested shyly. “More explicit, if you please.”

“Just be here in the morning when I wake up,” Gladio answered. “How’s that for explicit?”

“It’s a start.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here’s the skinny. First, I have been going through a period of serious writer’s inadequacy. This fandom is so talented and wonderful; I’ve been looking over everything with a critical stink eye. This accounts for part of the reason this chapter was so slow in coming because the backspace button became my very best friend.
> 
> Secondly, I was having trouble with how to move forward, though I know my destination I got a little turned about. So, please forgive me. 
> 
> Thirdly, grad school as been kicking my butt hard, so much so I’m taking a short sabbatical. Hopefully this will allow me to be more regular and better about posting.
> 
> Comments and kudos keep me motivated and fuel my soul!
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr at ofthekingsglaive . I’m going to have serious Episode Prompto feels like all of you. Let us commiserate.

XXV.

Ignis awoke an hour before Gladiolus with a start. His surroundings were unfamiliar; there was filtered light coming in through ramshackle blinds. In his own home, a smooth shade had been installed to black out the sun when he gave himself the reprieve from getting up early. There were no such safeguards here. Light spilled across his sight light, disturbing his sleep, though the body beneath him seemed unconcerned.  It made for a comely picture, too, the golden splash of sun spray as it played across the tempered dark of Gladio’s face and arms. It was something wondrous to behold.

There was the smoothness of the skin beneath his cheek, and a hardness too. Men were not meant for sleeping upon, however, and though the feeling of closeness was pleasing, he could only revel in the beauty of it for so long. His eyes danced over what pieces of Gladio he could see; the events of the previous night opening to him as a flower. Each petal was the snapshot of a memory, ephemeral, to be sure, but so solid in his consciousness he felt a small shudder roll through him. It took only a score of seconds to remember what exactly had happened, where he was and with whom. The selfish, devious part of him allowed himself the luxury of feeling the moment he was in, accepted by the flesh of Gladio’s chest, heartened by the sound of even breathing.

He felt no ill effects from the previous night’s alcohol consumption. He felt only the odd warmth of intimacy, having become aware of why people held it in such high esteem. The wanting was still there, curled like a coeurl in his chest, but it felt more contented and less sharp somehow. It also alerted him to how bias he’d been when he’d heard others confess to falling so quickly for people in a romantic sense. He could feel a burgeoning sense he didn’t wish to name that lay beneath feelings of regard, respect, friendship and admiration. It hovered, just upon the precipice, daring Ignis to acknowledge it, to admit that he might be insufferably romantic.

He thought on what it might be like to move forward with whatever this was, and conversely, how it might feel if Gladio admitted that their previous exchange would happen only once. He urged himself to be satisfied, whatever the outcome, focusing instead on the immediacy of extricating himself from the others side. This, however, proved to require a series of delicate maneuvers. The behemoth of a man and his limbs had tangled with Ignis’s sometime during the night. Gladio’s ankle had hooked over his at some point, too, effectively hobbling him. It required sinuous movements and the incremental slide of skin against skin, which was maddening for altogether separate reasons, but he managed it eventually. When he’d pulled himself from both the man and the covers; he turned to look anew. He raised a finger, unable to control the impulse, smoothing it over the lazy curve of Gladio’s brow.

“I should never tell you this were you awake, for you’re insufferable as it is, but I believe this may be my favorite morning,”

The form below him shifted and smiled, as self-satisfied as a cat who’d got the cream.

“I heard that.”

Ignis rolled his eyes, caught between embarrassment and exasperation. There never seemed a moment in which the upper hand was within his grasp with Gladio. He was unaccustomed to the feeling, but then Gladio was especially good at coaxing that which was unfamiliar from Ignis, and had done it with sparkling alacrity from the very moment they’d met.

“You heard nothing. You’re mostly asleep, and thus an unreliable narrator.”

Gladio groaned. “You’re…you’re an unreliable narrator.”

Ignis moved to stand, gaining his bearings in increments, allowing his logical mind to assume authority over his more sentimental side.

“You could say many things of me, Gladio, but unreliable is not one of them.”

A secondary groan saw Gladio turning over onto his stomach, burying his head in his pillow.

“It’s too much talking. Not enough sleeping.”

Ignis coughed politely. “I believe you might be suffering the after effects of ill-advised drinking. I can’t find it in me to feel too terribly sorry for you.”

A pillow was chucked across the room, without accuracy. Ignis chuckled, gathering it up and placing it back on the bed. “If you promise not to be petulant, I might be persuaded to grab the potion we left behind before leaving.”

One amber eye peered up from the pillow. “You’re leaving?”

Ignis tried not to read anything into the tone he perceived. Was it possible that Gladio sounded disappointed? He had his day planned, from the morning to the evening, but he’d been reluctant to rise and reluctant to leave. There was safety here in this room. There was no acknowledgement or refusal. Here there was only sensation and memory. That the other man might share his sentiments made Ignis feel warm from head to toe.

“I have places to be, I’m afraid.” Lowering himself to his haunches, Ignis put himself back at eye level with Gladio. “And I believe you only made me promise to stay until you’d awoken.”

Gladio shifted onto his back, pressing both hands to his forehead, cradling his head against what was likely the onslaught of consequences from the evening before. As he did this, it obscured the sharpness of those assessing eyes. It also gave Ignis the opportunity to parse what he might be thinking before Gladio spoke anew.

“Just so you know; I’m not sorry,” Gladio startled him. “About last night. I’m one thousand percent not sorry.”

“Gladio- “

“-for the love of Ramuh, man, you drive me nuts. You drive a sane person nuts. You run away; you’re hot one moment, cold then next and I -”

Ignis was back inside Gladio’s bed in an instant. He crept towards him, his body a comma as he displaced the larger man’s hands with his own. He permitted his fingers to linger over his temples, reading the others pulse with tactile touch. Gladio made a pleased sound, allowing Ignis to soothe him with his hands. He felt so much wonder and so unfailingly light, he could have drifted into the ether but for the tether of this man, the solidity of him and his unending earnestness.

“I’m not cold to you,” he assured. “In fact, there has never been anyone I’ve wished to be warm with more.”

“You’re not the only one with shit to do, you know” Gladio quickly pointed out. “But if you wanna prove it and meet me later; I’ll believe you.”

He wondered how he might have looked like in that moment. He could feel the manifestations of his surprise move on his face, the tightening on his fingers at Gladio’s face, the widening of his eyes in surprise and affection, the shift in his body as it yearned to cleave closer rather than move away.

“I’ll be free after seven,” Ignis said, releasing the man and readying to leave.

“Then I’ll see you a minute after.”

XXVI.

Ignis thoughts had been stolen by a bronzed thief; he was certain. He was unfocused as he mentally ticked off the hours with reminiscing, replaying the night before and the morning of. Memory could be a fickle mistress but when his shirt still smelled faintly of Gladio, having not returned home since the previous evening, he knew his mind was not playing tricks on him. Not this time. This time had been real, more than a dream, better than a dream.

The fact that he was called to the carpet by Noctis alerted him to the potential danger of being so wrapped up in feelings and though he wished he had the audacity of an actor with which to fool the prince, he cared only a little at having attention drawn to his preoccupation.

Noctis sat hunched over a cup of coffee. “Stop smiling,” he grumbled. “It’s weird.”

“Your poor highness, subjected to the consequences of his bad decisions. I believe you might be an adult in earnest if you decide to suffer your hangover in silence.”

Noctis scowled and Ignis bit down upon his lip to school his features. It seemed slightly unfair to give Noctis a tongue lashing when he’d opted toward charity with Gladio earlier. The two had done ostensibly the same thing and Gladio had less reason to test the theory of how much alcohol one could legitimately consume without feeling the after effects. However, with Gladio the after effects had led to personal gratification, so Ignis felt he lacked the position with which to censure.

“I didn’t really see you,” Noctis said, his voice a harsh rasp as he pillowed his head in his hands. “Did you leave early?”

“It’s a wonder you remember anything at all,” Ignis offered, swiftly diverting the line of questioning. “I hear tell you were falling down drunk.”

“I wasn’t falling _down_ ; I was falling _over_. A little.”

The omission about where and when Ignis had left the festivities left a bitter, deceitful taste in his mouth. But Ignis was not quite ready to share what had transpired with anyone, least of all Noctis. It wasn’t a lack of trust or even a concern over propriety, although both of those set on the fringes of his worries. Mostly, he wanted to keep what happened private so it was his alone, his to wonder over, his to recollect, his to obsess over. Utterly his.

“I wasn’t aware the two were separate or mutually exclusive, but I’ll defer to your superior experience.” Ignis cleared away a dish of largely untouched eggs and bacon, moving scraps into the trash can as he tidied. “Seeing as you’re the one of us who has actually been drunk.”

Red rimmed, blue eyes stared, parting the steam of the coffee cup, looking both irritated and surprised. “You’re serious, never? You’ve never been drunk?”

“The concept is called moderation, Noct. You may wish to try it. Play your video games for an hour, rather than for four, try sleeping for a solid eight hours rather than -”

“-yeah, okay, okay. I get it.”

“But do you?”

Ignis took the opportunity to pull his phone out from his breast pocket. He’d been woefully lax in checking his texts the night before, too concerned by the miasma of lust and sex and all things Gladio to be truly attentive to technology, but when he’d finally attended to it, he’d found twenty-seven messages. Every message had been from Prompto, giving a faithful account of all that had transpired with Noctis the the night before with accompanying pictorial evidence to prove it. A few questions, which Ignis never answered, about how quickly he should stop their prince from drinking, also had made an appearance and made Ignis feel as if he’d failed in some way as an advisor. He might have chastised himself further still had several of those pictures not also featured King Regis as well as Prompto, both of whom looked to Noctis with such unerring love that he knew that his liege hadn’t been lacking in care or consideration. He offered up his phone to Noctis with a sweeping gesture.

For a while the prince said nothing. He stabbed the touch screen with the same force he’d put into fighting as he slid his finger from right to left, quickly. His eyes crawled toward his hairline. Even beneath the fringe of his bangs, his hair crossing over his sightline, it was easy to see the tendrils of mortification alighting his features as each picture told a compelling story of alcoholic vice.

 “I’m going to get him for this,” he lamented. “His ass is so grass.”

In a few more moments Ignis had cleared the counters, putting the kitchen back in pristine order but for Noctis mug. “Don’t worry, I insisted he delete all of them the moment I received them.”

The hopefulness of Noctis’ regard was swift and just as quickly chased away by confusion. “If you did, then why do you still have them?”

“Oh, I’ll delete them, of course. I wouldn’t want them falling into the wrong hands. Tabloids in Lucis are unforgiving, you know. But if you’ll scroll to the eighteenth photo, you’ll be become privy to why I didn’t immediately delete it.”

Noctis scrolled with an eagerness reserved for someone to whom usage of technology was as natural as breathing. He blanched, head snapping up, wide eyes looking at Ignis pointedly.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, highness, but, I do believe that position is colloquially known as ass over tit.”

“This isn’t funny!’

Ignis found that he was grinning from ear to ear. “I sincerely beg to differ.”

XXVIII.

The merriment of lovingly mocking Noctis persisted throughout the day. It had ended when Noct had offered a rude gesture to which Ignis promptly turned his back. Before he left he ensured that all photographic evidence of Noctis’ indiscretions had been culled from his phone, and he followed up with the young blonde to ensure he had done the same. By the time he’d finished, he was running late.

Still high on teasing and merriment as he awaited the elevator to ride down from Noctis’ floor, he managed to hammer out a small text.

**Message:** **Ignis Scientia to** **Gladiolus Amicitia 15:19 pm**

[Noctis and you have a great deal in common, not the least of which is your incapacity to hold your liquor.]

To his surprise an immediate chime followed his text. He quickly checked his phone, pursing his lips to keep from smiling or otherwise appearing anything other than a man in perfect control. Though he didn’t know the other people waiting for the elevator, he rather enjoyed the cutting façade of inimitable cool.

**Message:** **Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia to 15:20 pm**

[Give him a break. You’re only 18 once, Iggy.]

**Message: Ignis Scientia to Gladiolus Amicitia 15:21 pm**

[If that’s his excuse, what’s yours?]

**Message: Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia to 15:22 pm**

[I was fighting for Lucian pride.]

Ignis got into the elevator, quickly firing off what was likely to be his last text message before getting in his car and making his way towards the Glaives training grounds. He stared down at his phone, the very ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

**Message: Ignis Scientia to Gladiolus Amicitia 15:24 pm**

[Oh? I wasn’t aware showboating went by that name.]

**Message: Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia to 15:25 pm**

[Ha fucking ha. See you in three hours and thirty-six minutes. Let me know where I’m meeting ya’.]

Ignis ducked his head into his chest, the only way to hide the smile he could not keep from alighting his features. His heart hammered in his chest. Had Gladio been near a clock? He didn't recall ever having seen him wear a watch. It seemed too much to hope that he’d be counting the hours until they next met, but hope he did. It was a fragile, tentative hope, thinner than gossamer and paler than new morning, but it was there all the same.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to thank everyone for taking the time to read this, comment on this and leave kudos. It truly spurs me on. I am having such fun with cultivating this and the feedback keeps me motivated, particularly when I’m going through a slump. Ya'll are fabulous!
> 
> This chapter is long, and structured a little differently. I hope you like it. Please continue to give me your feedback and come talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive, if you want to have a chit chat.
> 
> Also, someone sent me an anon on tumblr asking if I’d like art of this, and the answer is yes, a thousand times yes. I accidentally deleted the message but it would give me life. 
> 
> This has no beta, so please forgive any errors, inconsistencies, or issues.

XXIX.

**Message: Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia**

[Do you wanna mess around?]

It had been seven weeks and four days since the first time that Gladiolus Amicitia had kissed Ignis in the alleyway on Noctis’ birthday. Seven weeks and four days since Ignis had felt Gladio’s bare skin beneath the pads of his fingers, his form so smooth, so cool, despite the frenzy of their touches. It had been seven weeks and three days since he’d awoken in the larger man’s arms. He cursed himself for being so attuned to timing. He cursed anything which alluded to the passage of time, as well. He eschewed calendars as often as possible. They were maddening little reminders of seven weeks and four days prior. With each passing day, he hated them all the more.

Time passed, but nothing Ignis had expected had accompanied that passage of time, at least not in regards to Gladio. He had expected to move forward or backwards but the changes that Ignis had been expecting, well, they simply hadn’t come. There were subsequent encounters between the two of them, but they had been relatively chaste in comparison to the night in the bathroom at the Amicitia manor. Neither of them said a word about it besides five, little words in the form of a text message which came at all hours of the day and night, intermittently. The messages were succinct and to the point, a set of infuriating fiends typed up on a tiny, little screen which set nerves and other, more intimate parts of him, ablaze.

**Message: Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia**

[Do you wanna mess around?]

The answer was almost always yes. When he wasn’t attending to his duties, the answer was always yes.  Ignis tried not to let himself get caught up the frequency of the offers, nor did he allow himself to be distracted. He was, in his opinion, the very picture of patience when the phone went off, buzzing during a meeting. He showed great control in not picking up or responding until the timing was acceptable. Sometimes, he found himself thinking what Gladio might do if he said nothing at all but his fingers reacted before his mind caught up with the rest of him. He was never sorry for an affirmative response after it was given but it left him breathless in confusion.

They’d meet in random places, in the park, behind the pillars in the training halls while waiting for Noctis’ to change for his lessons, in the car, always kissing lazily and parting each others mouths with resolute tongues. They fondled each other, demanding, but over the clothes, until they were both hard and aching in their trousers. It never went further. After prolonged sessions, which left Ignis’ mouth kiss swollen and achingly pink, he wondered if whatever the current encounter was would prove to be the last. It never was, whether it was a single day or three, another text message would inevitably come and Ignis would answer. It established a normalcy of routine if naught else. It was exasperating, occupying the liminal space of something and nothing, refusing to reconcile on either end. He came to notice he’d been wringing his hands, literally, forcing the knuckles of one into the flesh of the other, worrying them. He’d noticed this, and then he’d attend to his work. He tried to keep his hands busy as his mind found it was often otherwise occupied.

Though the autumnal equinox had come and gone the languid heat of the summer persisted. He was waiting in the princes car, the air conditioning on full blast, awaiting Noctis who had yet to come from a meeting with his father. That he was late coming out was somewhat disconcerting, as the King had an excellent mind for both timing and scheduling, but he found the heat a more pressing problem. Even though the cool air surrounded him, he was tacky with sweat. The casual chill of perspiration collected at the back of his neck and dripped down to the small of his back. He was uncomfortable and decidedly irritated. The phone trilled, and he stared at it, precognitively guessing at the sender.

**Message: Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia**

[Do you wanna mess around?]

He read it twice, choosing to stare out the window before immediately replying. He wanted to, yes, but, he’d come to recognize that he wanted more. What exactly more entailed was unfamiliar to him and because of that it made it difficult to even think of saying anything. What was there to say? He stared at the message again, taking a deep breath in consideration.

The night after he’d spent the night in Gladiolus’ bed they’d gone on what any normal person might have called a date. True to his word, Gladio had shown exactly one minute after seven pm. He was much more put together than he’d been the night before, close cropped hair slicked back to give a sleeker appearance. He’d changed his clothing, too. The smell of oil and leather was prominent and the clothing was not unlike what Ignis had seen him wear many times before, but the wear and tear on the both the crisp white shirt and dark leather pants was minimal. It was likely the clothing was new or seldom worn. There were inferences to be made through this information, but what exactly they were had left him guessing.

“You changed your clothes,” he offered, leaving the Kingsglaive training grounds behind.

Gladio laughed, a dark, warm bray; Ignis found himself unconsciously lifting his chin, tilting it towards the sound. “Did you expect me to wear pajama’s all day?”

“You don’t wear pajama’s,” Ignis said, not missing a beat.

“Even worse, then.”

They smiled at each other for longer than was normal, crossing the lines of familiarity and propriety, both. Ignis was the first to break, looking down and away, catching himself for engaging too long in simply staring.

“I wish you’d have said something, I hadn’t even thought to change. I’m sweaty and…”

He was abruptly silenced, a hand at his wrist, fingers stroking the fine, thin skin there, with purpose and promise.

“…you look fine, Ignis. You always look fine. More than, most days.” he stated. Though Ignis was prone to consider such simple flattery as disingenuous, he hadn’t the heart to do so this time, nor did he believe Gladio capable of such a thing. He’d never heard him be dishonest, which perhaps explained why he felt so moved by so simple a statement.

“If you’ve noticed, it implies you’ve been watching.” He could feel hope fluttering in his chest but dared not look up.

“You’re hard to miss.”

There was no pretense to the response, no backpedaling. His honesty was as refreshing as it was earnest and simple.

“You never worry about what you say, do you?”

He could see the lines of Gladio’s shoulders rise and fall in periphery. He wasn’t elegant in so much as he was purposeful, the economy of movement natural. “Why would I? I don’t have to. _I_ don’t work in politics. I don’t know how you do it.”

“There are days,” he admitted.

The hand at his wrist gripped tighter and Ignis peered up, green eyes seeking understanding in bright amber. “You wanna tell me about it?”

So, they’d gone to dinner, choosing a place close enough to walk to, one they both knew, central to the city with fare that was neither bold nor adventurous. It was neutral ground and Ignis noted he was not the only one to seem out of place as they sat across from one another. Gladio’s posture was less relaxed than Ignis was used to seeing him, than it had been even moments before, a reticence in the curve of his limbs that was reflected similarly in the thin line of Ignis’ mouth.

When conversation began it ebbed and flowed, staccato bits of information tumbling from his lips, though it felt awkward even the lulls and silences had been relatively companionable. Gradually, and as dinner progressed, Ignis learned to relax again in Gladio’s company again. He smiled over the salad course, politely coughing into his hand when Gladio made a joke. He grew bolder in his looking at the next course, watching a tongue that much darker in color than his lips sweep over the bow of Gladio’s mouth. He observed the slackening in Gladio’s body, too, and let the comfort of the other man’s relaxation be mirrored in his own expression. It was like the days in the library all over again, occupying the same space with laughter and shared information. They spoke on Noctis, on the state of Lucis, about a movie Ignis thought Gladio might like, about a book which was one of Gladio’s favorites. It seemed as if no time at all passed but the ache in Ignis shoulders and the droop in his eyelids alluded to its passage.

“It’s getting late,” he said, reluctantly. “Perhaps we should order dessert and be done with it.”

A smirk. “You trying to get rid of me, Iggy?”

“No,” a hasty response, but he shook his head in accompaniment. “No,” he said again, less frantically this time. “I find I don’t mind your company in the least.“

“I was thinking the same thing.”

When desert was finished (a lovely, rose tinted, lemon chiffon cake), Gladio walked them back the way of Ignis’ car. They took the long route, whether choosing instinctively to miss their turns, or through divine providence which left them too immersed in conversation to notice; a five-minute walk became fifteen with ease. They talked more, arms unconsciously brushing as they meandered side by side. His heart felt both full and heavy when it was clear the evening had concluded. They stood near Ignis’ car, Gladio’s body leaning casually against the doorframe. Even then, when the hours were growing later than Ignis’ usually went to bed, he stalled his goodbye for as long as possible. He was happy in his company, though conversation hadn’t turned to what had happened in Gladio’s home the night before.

“It’s late,” he said. “Though I’m reluctant to say goodnight I…”

His words were cut off by the press of hands to his cheeks. He flushed beneath the ministrations that saw fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the cut of his cheek bones. There was so much gentleness in the touch that he keened, falling into the solidity of his fingers. Gladio had sure hands. He never wavered; he never faltered. It was in his make-up. He was assured in everything. His training had given him a great many things, the bulk of his physique, the iron will when striking combatants, but it also allowed him the surety to touch Ignis in way which brooked no dissension. He latched into him , his nails bluntly digging into Gladio’s sides as he sought to kiss his mouth, extending the line of his neck to push more fully into the guarantee of those hands, knowing he’d find pleasure there. Gladio had other ideas. His lips fluttered across Ignis’ forehead, the barest hint of pressure leaving a kiss at the space between his brows. His eyes closed of their own accord, an involuntary action at being treated so tenderly.

“Goodnight Ignis.”

That voice as sweet as honey and bare as smoke had left an impression as indelible and solid as the kiss upon his brow. As he crawled into his car, making his way through Insomnia’s streets, he’d replayed that moment and the night as a whole over and over in his head, a record of what had transpired with pristine and perfect recollection. When he arrived home, he found he hardly remembered the drive. When he bathed, he was dizzy with anticipation of what might come next. When he turned into bed, he thought of little else beside the haphazard, half smile that Gladio wore when he teased him. When he dreamed, reality seemed a sweeter companion than what fiction his mind could conjure.

He awoke to a text message, the same that would fill his phone for weeks afterwards, and though his body responded with furor to that and subsequent attempts at physicality, his heart beat a little less quickly each time. Desire was a precarious thing, stoked by the physical, but his pandered to emotion. He remembered the kiss to his brow and the soft regard, more delightful and sweeter than even the sweat soaked desperation of their bodies moving in tandem. When he kissed him, stolen moments provocated through simple texts, he tried to imbue the depth of both confusion and fondness into it to no avail. They came together as magnets, drawn, then separated without shared words. The date week before, that intimacy, somehow lost no matter how deeply he chased the taste of Gladio's mouth.

Deep into his reverie,  Noctis returned to the car. He wore a dark scowl and was determinedly staring out the window in much that same way Ignis had done moments before. They shared a commonality, whether inborn or learned, where they both initially refused to speak on what was bothering them. He frowned slightly, laying his phone onto the passenger seat, staring at the prince in the rear-view. 

“Is everything alright, Noct?”

The prince shook his head. “Everything keeps getting worse,” Noctis said. “People keep dying, borders keep closing, and every day more people come to Insomnia looking for help. “ He continued looking hard past the window, refusing to meet Ignis’ eyes. “Meanwhile, I just want to play Kings Knight.”

He wanted to be angry at Noctis, but the defeat in his tone caused a fissure somewhere deep within Ignis. He was weak where Noctis was concerned. His deep and abiding faith in his friend, in his prince, made him believe that when the time came that Noctis would chose the way of a a worthy ruler, despite what his wants might be. He was stout of heart, though lazy, he was good to his very core though prone to selfishness. Ignis had no reservations that when the time came that Noctis would serve in the way all those hoped he might, likely succeeding more brilliantly than any could have guessed.

“The time for games is almost over,” Ignis reminded, turning the key in the ignition to give his idle hands a chore to do.

“I know that,” Noctis replied with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Everyone’s so damn loud about it. If I didn’t already know…”

“…you’ll be up for the challenge. When it’s time; I know you will.”

“And you’ll be there?”

He nodded. “Always.”

Before he set them on their way, pressing his heel to accelerate, he reached for his phone He stared at the text message once more, letting resolve fill him up. If he expected Noctis to grow up, he had to do so as well. The time for games was indeed at a close and if he wanted more from Gladiolus he had to be willing to risk embarrassment and discomfiture or worse.

**Message: Gladiolus Amicitia to Ignis Scientia**

[Do you wanna mess around?]

He smiled at his phone, chancing a glance at Noctis once more in the mirror.

“You alright there, Specs?”

He thumbed a reply, having grown bolder and quicker in his responses from the day Prompto had first helped him to text.  


“I believe so, yes.”

**Message: Ignis Scientia to Gladiolus Amicitia**

[Come to my home. I hope you remember the address.]

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so long in coming. I knew what I wanted to say but it kept feeling out of character. I hope, in the end, it doesn’t feel so to you guys. 
> 
> My sincerest thanks for reading and for leaving both comments and kudos. It really does give me life, and I think it bolsters me into continuing. 
> 
> I’d love to talk to any of you @ ofthekingsglaive on tumblr, if you’ve have a mind.
> 
> This didn’t see a beta, so it’s likely full of mistakes. Please forgive me!

XXX.

When faced with absolutes, Ignis was at his best. He could prepare. His logical mind could make the concrete connections necessary to obtain the forethought for which he was known. He was sure in his planning tonight, quick though the planning had been, because he was positive of purpose. Whatever this was with Gladiolus, he resolved to meet it head on. As he had told Noctis earlier, the time for games was coming to a close. In this realization, for both himself personally and for the world at large, he felt a curious amount of freedom. There was no telling how anything might end, or even to truly know how tonight would progress, but he was doing something. He was moving forward. At the very least, he reasoned, it was enough because it kept him from idleness.

Despite the resolve, the trepidation remained a solid weight in his belly. To disperse it, he kept to tried and true routines. When he got home, he shrugged out from beneath the heaviness of one of his suit jackets, divesting himself of the day. He folded it, and placed it away to send to the cleaners. He drew himself a bath, emulsifying salt with bergamot oil and adding it to the shower. He unhurriedly prepped his dinner, slicing the daggerquil breast he’d gotten from market on the bias and stewing leiden peppers with crushed thyme and stock. As he left the meal to come together, flavors melding over a low simmer, he let himself relax into the bath. Ignis allowed his mind to wonder and consider, to let what he did know balance alongside that which was yet unclear.

He knew his own feelings to a point. He knew attraction notwithstanding that Gladio’s presence made him feel more balanced. He was happy when he was with him, enjoying jokes and shared interests all the while pondering at their dissimilarities. He also knew he wanted him in a way that he had never wanted anyone else. In his whole life, he’d never dreamt of anyone else. He had never been desirous to know what the taste another on his tongue might be like or wished for the salt tang of their skin between his teeth. But he wanted to know that of Gladio. He wanted to feel the robust comfort of his arms about his middle more than once. He wished to memorize the crest and fall of his chest as it moved in comforted sleep. He hadn’t wanted that with anyone else, in fact the very idea of such closeness with anyone but him was aberrant, keenly wrong. However, what it all meant, where it might go or even how to move forward left him perplexed.

He washed as he thought, warm water making his body malleable, as pliant as his thoughts. He carefully redressed, rolling the shirt sleeves of a clean, crisp, white dress shirt up his forearms. He padded back towards the kitchen just in time to hear the doorbell ring. Gladio had excellent or exasperating timing, depending on how you looked at it. Taking a deep breath stilled him, and he called upon what calming techniques he knew, allowing his resolve to fill him up. There was nothing to be nervous about, he reminded himself. If things changed, then they changed. If things didn’t then he played his hand, making his best effort. Gladio would go back to sheltering and shielding Noct in the way he always had done and Ignis would try to forget. It would be alright, he reasoned with the traitorous part of himself which declared it might not be. They were both sure in their duty; it would be alright.

Upon taking another deep breath, he opened the door. He found Gladio leaned against the door frame, developed musculature on display in a dark grey tank and darker pants.

“What smells so good?” As a greeting, it was lacking but when he smiled, all teasing and affability, Ignis found what could have been construed as impolite strangely endearing .

“A simple dinner.”

“You _cooked_ for me?”

Ignis sighed, opening the door wider to accommodate Gladio’s size. He had neighbors, and he disliked the idea of courting prying ears by having a conversation in the hallway, however benign. He ushered him inside with a quick flick of the wrist before expounding. “I cooked for _myself_ , but you may have some if you like.”

“You’re all heart, Iggy.”

“It’s been said.”

A rather perplexed look crossed Gladio’s face. Ignis tamped down on the curl of a smile, feeling somewhat assuaged to find Gladio confused. “Really?”

“No, but I do rather enjoy watching you try to figure out who might have said it.”

He began to move further into his apartment, the warmth of Gladio at a respectful distance behind him. His heart was steady, he could keep their exchanges even keeled through easy breathing and carefully selected witticisms. So long as he maintained a firm control, he reminded himself, he could manage to clarify things between himself and Gladio. He was sure of this, but it was difficult when his thoughts strayed to what it might feel like to turn and quickly kiss him, or tell him that he’d been increasingly in his thoughts.

“Still,” he managed. “If you’re implying I’m unkind, I might rescind the offer of dinner.”

“I’m not saying that,” Gladio replied quickly. “I know you care. You just don’t show it. Not how most people do, anyway.”

“Well,” was the only reply he could come up with. For lack of something more articulate to say, he meandered towards the stove, lifting lids and reaching for the proper tools to stir the peppers and flip the protein. This felt normal and right. The secure governance needed simply to make it from the hallway to the kitchen, Gladio in tow, was easier when faced with the routine of every day.

The other man made himself at home without Ignis offering the opportunity. He leaned against the bar that separated the open concept living area from the kitchen, resting the weight of his chin on the support of straight elbows. He peered over the partition, watching Ignis cook. His gaze was intense, tracking his movements. Were Ignis not wholly comfortable in his role of cook, he might have felt exposed. As it was, it was only a minor irritant that prompted a quip.

“Your staring, Gladio.”

“I like the view.” Unabashed, he shrugged. “How’d you get so good at this?”

“At cooking?”

“No, at standing in kitchens.” A beat.

“Trial and error, I suppose,” Ignis pressed a finger to glasses, moving them back up the bridge of his nose. He did so often when he felt anything but perfectly composed, his hand straying to fix his world back into the crystal clarity. He reached for a set of tongs.

“I was very young when I came to Insomnia. My uncle is a good man but he had little understanding of children. He was also very busy; he still is. He tried, but it was difficult to get back to his rooms before it was well and truly dark. It soon became a necessity.”

In front of him, Gladio’s amiable expression flickered, setting his features into a deep frown. The grimace was profound, as if etched in, and his eyes seemed to search out an answer in Ignis’. For as long as possible Ignis avoided the scrutiny, hands busy, but the sharpness could only be ignored for so long.

“You’re still staring. What is it?”

“How old were you,” Gladio asked, softly.

“I don’t recall, perhaps six, seven.” Under the keenness of the regard and the strict acuity he found there, Ignis offered more without prompting. “For a time, it was like a game. I ransacked his cupboards and ran amok. He was also quite fond of those noodles of yours.”

He hummed to himself, turning the stove switch to the off position and wiping his hands on a towel which hung from the oven, still availing himself of practiced repetition which loosened his lips. “Eventually, I grew bolder. I began to ask for ingredients. Even the bizarre or expensive was relatively easy to procure as a service member to the crown. A definite plus to holding such positions, a perk, if you will.”

Gladio snorted, clearly unhappy about something, averting his eyes. It wasn’t until he spoke that Ignis understood what might have been darkening his mood. “What about your parents?”

Ignis righted himself, turning fully to face the shield. This wasn’t what he’d called him here to discuss but he didn’t mind sharing, not when the others concern was so outwardly deep-seated. 

“They died, but not before they passed me off unto my Uncle’s care,” he confessed. “I recall they said I would have a better life here, and so I arrived and began my life anew. I remember very little of that time. I only learned they perished years after. I found a casualty report which bore their names. I decided to look into it, long after it happened. I have no idea why I was so curious.”

They stared at each other, the silence stretching until it was nearly uncomfortable. This was the first time that Ignis had felt that when in Gladio’s company. He shifted on the balls of his feet, awaiting a reply.

“I don’t think you ever were a kid,” Gladio lamented. He looked sorry, softer around the eyes, pained. Ignis didn’t recognize this look for certain but he guessed it might be pity. He hated it, loathed the idea of that feeling being one which Gladiolus associated with him.

“War _makes_ adults of children, Gladiolus. I am not special in that. “He nodded sharply, thinking of a hundred reports which had crossed his desk echoing the truth of what he’d said. He thought of Nyx’s accounts of the boys and girls he’d seen on his travels, those who toddled on unsure feet, clamoring to join the Kingsglaive.

“At any rate,” Ignis continued. “It was long ago and only highlights why all that King Regis does is so important. He allows the refugees sanctuary here. He keeps us all safe. It’s why Noct must be ready to accept the mantle of King when it’s his time; he’ll need to do the same. He’ll need to do _more_.”

Gladio answered him with another smile, paler than the one he’d offered before but strong enough to dispel what tension there had been in the preceding silence. “It all comes back to Noct, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied. “And it always will.”

Gladio’s grin widened as he pressed up and away from the counter, culling himself from repose. He always failed to remember that for a large man, Gladio moved quickly and with that quickness carried an uncharacteristic grace.

“Maybe so. Maybe Noct _will_ be everything everyone says he will. I haven’t decided what _I_ think yet. But I can tell you you’re wrong about one thing.”

“Oh yes?”

Coming alongside Ignis, removing the barrier of personal space as if he had never existed, Gladio upended his calm. He sifted through his cabinets, disturbing the order of Ignis as well as his things. He took down plates and utensils for their meal, unasked. “You _are_ special. There aint a part of you that isn’t.”

Ignis swallowed hard, face gone flush. “If you’re going to set the table” he succeeded in getting out “Don’t forget to get the bowls.”

“I got it," he said.

As they ate, they began chatting in a banal, assessing way. This was the ease he always wanted with Gladio, the familiar and the comfortable. With a table between them Ignis was better able to compartmentalize the physical from everything else. At this distance, the realization that he wanted him for him became clearer in his minds eyes. He still felt the warm headiness of his company but was less overwhelmed, more reassured by it.  Towards the end of their meal he inquired after Iris, watching with delight as Gladio’s love of his sister unfurled. He spoke more quickly, laughing over her exploits. Ignis laughed in kind, as everything that Gladio described sounded so winsomely young, unencumbered by the perils of the lives that they both led. He could tell Gladio was happy for her. He could feel his pride in her as if it were a corporeal thing rather than a nebulous one.

“You don’t sound like a brother,” he was quick to point out, studying him. “I’ve never heard such devotion from a sibling.”

“What do I sound like then?”

“A father perhaps.” A piqued brow found Gladio looking slightly away. “It appears I may not by only one who lacked a traditional childhood.”

The look Gladio gave him was nothing less than shrewd. “You got me.”

“I do enjoy being right, especially when it comes to you.”

They smiled over the rest of dinner, both sneaking glances. Ignis was once again caught up in their parallels. Though they were very different, and though their upbringings had been markedly unalike, there was a commonality in that neither had experienced their young lives traditionally. Neither of them had had Iris’ freedom to learn and explore and inquire free of the thought of duty. There were expectations applied to both from the start. There would always be. The next time he smiled at him, it was solely for that reason, and no other.

Eventually, when there was nothing left of their food, Ignis went to tidy. He rose, reaching over Gladio’s shoulder to clear his plate, only to find his hand firmly grasped mid- reach. Large hands played over his own, slotting their fingers together. He allowed him, forgetting himself.

“Why’d you ask me over?”

The moment of truth hung pregnant, the moon in the sky, hovering. “Gladio, I…” He was loath to discover his capacity for being erudite had turned remarkably feckless. He’d been doing so well. Ignis squeezed his hand, allowing himself to feel solidity of the other man’s palm beneath his own. If what he had to say was to change whatever it was they had, he wanted to remember this feeling. He wanted to keep every moment of intimacy they’d shared. He wanted to keep the companionship, too, but there was no telling if either would last.

“…if this is a dalliance for you, please let me know it. Let me know it before it becomes more complicated. Before, I suspect, it would mean more to me than it likely should. Before it means more to me than it already does.”

Admitting to feelings, even in a bare sense, left him feeling exposed but there was no other choice than to do so. In answer, there was no shift in Gladio. He held his hand still, the grip no looser or firmer than before. His was voice sotto voce, hushed and tonal “You think I’d do that?”

“I think you have a reputation...”

The abruptness with which Gladio released him was sudden and Ignis felt less bold when Gladio turned to face him, head on.

“Why do that,” Gladio asked. “What you say to me, it’s like you pick out the things you know will piss me off most just because you know they will.” Ignis found his regard narrowed, curious as Gladio continued.

“A lot of people say a lot of things about both you _and_ me. If I listened to everything they said about you, Iggy, I never would have talked to you in the first place.”

Ignis felt somewhat chastised. He disliked the feeling and it made him grasp at straws to make a case in which he was right whilst Gladio was not. It wasn’t as if he was searching for a reason to fight but he could see, even as he selected his next words, that what he said might herald one. He could hear their voice rising in pitch, a presage of bickering. Still, he persisted.

“Nevertheless, you cannot tell me you haven’t have many lovers.”

Gladio stood, pushing away from the table. All bluster and blowhard, he let forth a long-suffering sigh. There were lines of irritation in his posture, and as he moved to stand, the height difference between the pair of them had never been clearer. He lorded over Ignis, looking down as he pulled their bodies into closer contact. His gaze was fire, threatening to burn the world down around them, simply because he could.

“And so what if I have,” Gladio challenged. “What happened before, it doesn’t matter unless you want it to.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the kind smile that Ignis knew, not the one which crinkled the lines at the corner of his eyes or the playful one which was followed by a laugh. This was predatory and sensuous. It drew out arousal in his core and he could feel his resolve waver, vacillating between a sincere wish to close what little space between them yet existed, fitting his lips solidly over Gladio’s, and proving that he was his equal if not in height than in the strength the endure.

Gladio leaned in, brushing his nose against Ignis’. He kissed his cheek, the heat of his mouth dragging across his jaw, unhurried. He avoided his lips, pressing lingering kisses to the shell of his ear before seeking lower prey, tongue laving at his uneven pulse.

“Ah, Gladio,” he could not help himself.

An answering chuckle danced upon the trail his mouth left and Ignis bent to him, hands in his hair, pulling and drawing them closer. How did one remain serious of purpose when it was so easy, so pleasurable, to not?

“So you _do_ want to mess around.”

Those words, had he selected any others Ignis might have been amiable to set his logical mind aside. Instead, them jolted him back into reality, steeling what parts of him which were weak and feeble to his kisses and his own desires. He released his grip on his hair, silken strands skating through his parted fingers.

“No. I don’t,” Ignis pulled away, slightly, but surely, creating a distance when before there had been none. He had quarter now, safe behind resolution once more.

Gladio continued to smile, then wavered when he tried to kiss Ignis again, as he leaned away.

“You don’t…wait, what?” The bravado slipped away in increments, washed clean by his refusal. Ignis would give the man sincere credit, he took no for an answer better than many people he’d known. He followed suit, leaning away on his own, jerked from his surety and fixed with seemingly perplexed look. “You don’t, but you just were…I don’t get it.”

Against his better judgement, he reached out to him, drawing his thumb across the other man’s lip, somewhat transfixed at the sheen and wetness his kisses had left there.

“It’s not a thing I’m built for, these casual encounters,” Ignis clarified. “I never shall be. To simply be a notch in a bedpost as it were, is as loathsome a thing to me as I can conjure. In as much as I want you, I will not allow it. I cannot. “

He smiled barely, briefly, something unconscious in its self-deprecation, pulling his hand back into the safety of his own body. “We can resume our prior contact, Gladio, forget anything ever happened. If we let it be, I will recover in time and it need not be difficult…”

“… _you’ll_ recover in time?”

“I, yes,” Ignis found he was rolling his eyes. “I’m astounded by the size of your ego, to suggest that you’d overturn me so much that I couldn’t possibly...”

“…and me? If don’t recover? If I don’t want to?”

Ignis could feel his eyes widen. In truth, he’d been selfish in considering only his own wants and needs. He never stopped to reflect on what Gladio might want. He never stopped to consider that anything he might feel could be reciprocated, or even shared. His rigid posture relaxed slowly, still concerned at being silenced but biding his time, really listening, really hearing what the other man had to say.

“Maybe you’re not built for casual encounters, but..” Gladio took a deep breath. Ignis recognized the gesture as one which was a composition of thoughts, a steeling of oneself. He stayed silent. “…I don’t know how to talk about this.”

It made a certain amount of sense. One of the primary reasons Ignis was so drawn to Gladio was because of their differences in nature, if also because of their similarities. Gladio was a blunt instrument in many ways. He had to be, it was what he was meant to do in acting the part of a shield. He was sure action whilst Ignis puzzled over difficulties, meaning and implications, often verbally.

“Then we’re at an impasse.”

The man of action sprung into his role with ease. “Not exactly.  Because I’m more stubborn than you are. And I’m not gonna let this go.”

He grabbed Ignis by the collar, bringing their bodies together, collision. “I get it,” he continued. “It’s either you and it’s me, or its nothing.”

As an explanation it was woefully simplistic but when Ignis searched his eyes he saw no simplicity, only a depth of understanding. “Then?”

Gladio pressed their foreheads together. They were so close now, he could barely see the intricacies of his face any longer, the light of his eyes were too close to properly gaze into. His vision was a blur, but everything else felt more concrete, peaceful and solid.

“Then, it’s you and it’s me.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a woefully slow writer and my confidence is the crappiest of the crap. I take forever. I’m so sorry. If you’re still with me, and will stay with it, I whole heartedly promise not to abandon this. I have an outline through the end of the game, so I have a direction. It’s coming (if any of ya’ll are still reading).
> 
> Your comments and kudos keep me motivated and writing, so please feed my neediness.
> 
> Come talk to me at ofthekingsglaive on tumblr. I’m nice, well, sometimes.

XXXI.

Gladiolus had a way with words which people did not usually ascribe to him. Perhaps he wasn’t as articulate as Ignis, or as verbose, but what he said carried weight. There was an intensity in his gaze which matched the sentiment of what he said and a suggestion that he could see into you, and delve into the heart of you. When he spoke with such surety, there was a sharp perspicacity which eclipsed anything else.

“Then, it’s you and it’s me,” Gladio said.

Six words and Gladio had ruined him utterly. Ignis could build munificent worlds with his words, fix sentences together to make castles of them, but they paled in comparison to what Gladio could do with a mere six. Ignis realized he’d hoped, but only barely, that Gladio might have wanted something beyond mere physicality. He had secreted those thoughts within, into a very naïve and hopeful place that seldom saw the light of day. They were safer there, he reasoned, because there they could be managed—together with what disappointment he believed was coming.

In the end, it hadn’t come. Gladio threw his strength into admitting he wanted Ignis  _with_  the strings of fidelity attached. Ignis decided in that moment that he could reply in kind, allowing his body to speak in his stead. 

He fractured in increments, thrusting his torso forward, letting momentum propel him into Gladio’s arms, into his orbit, into a whirlwind of mouths and teeth and hips and limbs. He reached out to cradle his head, aware they were falling, grabbing for purchase in too short hair, wanting to keep him from hurt.

This was unlike him. He was not a man who threw caution to the wind. He was a man of calculation and control. In this moment, however, he only knew that he wanted. He needed the baser instincts free of tether, needed the fresh slide of skin against skin to center him in a new reality where he could want and have those feeling reciprocated. He would enjoy this. He would feel every inch of this and he would ensure Gladio did too.

They sank, a figurative and literal crash which toppled them to the floor. It was inelegant but he hardly cared. He eased his fingers away from the crown of Gladio’s head after he was sure he’d cushioned their fall. He bracketed the other man's face as he would a frame, a recessed portrait in his hands. He was, Ignis thought idly, beautiful.

“I’m enamored of you,” Ignis admitted, kissing him chastely on the mouth. He moved to brush his lips over the exposed curve of his jaw, feather light in his touch. Gladio lay beneath him, supine. He allowed him all the openness of touch and exploration without demand, keeping his hands up in surrender. Ignis smiled against him, happy in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

Gladio grinned up at him. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

There was a shift from below where Gladio’s knees came apart, allowing Ignis even greater contact. He was drawn between the space there, shifting until their clothed arousals pressed against each other. It was surprising, but somehow not, at how quickly they succumbed to their desire. It was as he had suggested, an all-or-nothing tug which left them both barren and cold or fever hot. There was no in-between as he moved to kiss Gladio more insistently, tongue tracing over his lips to demand access rather than politely requesting it. He knew, with a quiet certainty, that they would be forever entwined in some nameless knot: devout in one another or entirely divorced. He realized how absurd he’d been to suggest that he could move backwards to a time when he did not know how Gladio’s mouth tasted, could not recall the rough slip of his tongue or the hard planes of his chest. How could he possibly make-believe that when Gladio laughed without pretense that Ignis was not swept into the fray? That he didn’t notice the pride in Gladio's eyes when Noctis succeeded in parrying a blow? He could no more forget these things than he could forget his own duty.

They kissed lazily as Ignis made sense of things, as knees tightened about his hips, pulling him out of his reverie. The touch grounded him, into a blissful and fearful symmetry which slotted their thighs together.

“Put your hands on me,” Ignis whispered, a sharp demand.

“Where?”

“Anywhere, everywhere.”

It was easier to respond with what he wanted now, bolstered by the usage of six words which held back any fear of reprisal or embarrassment. Ignis could be confident in this, bold enough to let his body move, guided by instinct alone. Further realization dawned on him as he relied on new boldness, as his hands strayed from the sharp cut of Gladio’s cheekbones to discover his hands instead.

He found his fingers off-angled, fighter’s hands, rough and calloused. Still, their palms slotted together as easily as puzzle pieces. He brought them to where he wanted, where he needed to be touched, before Gladio—who was more decisive in this—could make the choice in his stead. He fixed one to his hip to guide their motion; the other he placed center mast to where his heart beat a wild tattoo.

“So fast,” Gladio marveled, curling his hand in the fabric of Ignis's shirt. Below him, Ignis found the other man’s gaze changed, pupils blown wide, altering the expressiveness of his amber eyes. There was a thrill, one which built at the base of his spine and bloomed as would a blush upon the skin, that he could upend Gladio as surely as Gladio had always done to him.

Gladio's flattened palm displaced Ignis’s fingers at his chest to feel the heart beating beneath his skin. Ignis didn’t fight him, allowing him the same unearthing Gladio had permitted him. “Iggy, your heart’s beating…”

 “…I should hope so,” he answered breathlessly. “Or else this encounter would be over before it started.”

 “Smart ass.”

Gladio silenced his mouth with a kiss, curving towards Ignis’ heat, pure assent in the supple motion of his body. There was fluidity in the line of his hips sliding to fit them together and change their positions. He pulled as Ignis pressed, both finding themselves drawn completely into each other. Those fighter’s hands were as nimble as the rest of him, hooking into the belt loops of Ignis’ trousers and moving him further into his embrace. There was little space between them, what with Gladio’s insistence and Ignis burrowing into the space between his neck and shoulders, but they managed.

Once on top, Gladio kissed Ignis anew, pulling back to nuzzle at his cheek, at his shoulder as a button at the base of Ignis’ throat was displaced, at his collarbone where he applied enough pressure to bruise, at the pulse point where his racing heartbeat carried on unabated. The world narrowed into a game of guessing where Gladio might make a gambit next, each new choice a wonder.

“I want,” Gladio began, a pant against his skin. “Gods, but I want you.”

It was not perfect. With their roles reversed, when it was Gladio who had him pressed him to the floor, he found it felt as unyielding as death. In their rush to continue touching, Ignis’s nose hit Gladio’s jaw in an unceremonious _thwack_. Ignis’s hands were far from steady as he reached for Gladio, trying to bury them in dark hair which was too short to take hold of. It was lacking in romance, but as he watched with wide eyes the path of lips that mapped the planes of his belly. As the other man undid the button fly of his pants with startling alacrity, Ignis found a strange beauty in the imperfection. 

Gladio lifted Ignis's hips to lay him bare, holding his weight and his heart in his hands. Ignis tried to cover his eyes, to brace himself against the newness of nudity and intimacy, making a blindfold of an arm thrown haphazardly over his eyelids.

“Iggy, lemme see you.”

Ignis complied, never having been so glad to have acquiesced than when he was granted the view of Gladio taking him into his mouth. He tried to stay quiet, but his moans were wanton and loud. He’d never been so boisterous—everything in moderation, everything in its place—but then he’d never felt this before. He flexed and squirmed as those plush lips worked him with spit-slick precision. He keened to an answering hum as Gladio stripped him barer still, one hand reaching in to join with his mouth as the other wrapped around his own cock to stroke in time. Ignis could not keep his eyes open, too attuned to the sensation and aware that he was close.

In the darkness, he could _feel_ , awareness narrowed to a single point: the luxurious heat of Gladio's mouth that teased at the tip of him before swallowing him down afresh, to the hilt. There was no enduring that assault; he came with a shuddered breath, muscles in his neck straining so as not to cry out too loud, hips pinned down to keep from propelling forward as Gladio took not only his seed but his afterglow.

Ignis’s eyes fluttered open. He felt curiously spent after having done very little but surrender. He experienced a tender flush, watching Gladio’s own crest and fall, leaving a mess on his floor he hadn’t the heart to think about, let alone clean. Not yet.

They tucked themselves away, secreting bodies behind the soft swell of clothing. Once finished he rolled to his feet, offering a hand to Gladio. Their hands fitted together once more, the electric tangle of them persisted and Ignis smiled on, perhaps a little more shyly than was warranted given what had transpired.

“Do one more thing for me,” Ignis asked.

Shaking his head, Gladio chuckled. “Still not enough? Okay then, tell me.”

“Don’t cut your hair,” he said, daring a bold gaze.

A strange considering look crossed Gladio's face. “My hair? Why?”

“Because,” said Ignis, “I will learn every inch of you, Gladiolus Amicitia. And while I do, I’ll need something to hold on to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks does not quite encompass the amount of prostration that is owed to Chocobo Goddess for beta’ing this. I am overly wordy, I switch tenses like some people change clothes and I’m generally a mess of inconsistencies. I’m so thankful for your help and guidance.
> 
> The greatest of love and thanks to AtropaAzraelle (Polyoxyethylene) & Sauronix for listening to me whine and complain and backspace the shit out of this chapter. Ya’ll are bright little gems, you Gladnis girls!
> 
> And still more thanks to Twitchy_Pendulum who helped me word find, though I’m sure she didn’t realize.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another instance of playtime with structure. Let's call this one 'fun with vignettes'.

XXXII.  
That first night, Ignis realized a great many things. The one which surprised him most was that he enjoyed the familiarity of being held. He keened into a touch which smoothed up and down his back, tracing idle circles. It was calming. This time, having fallen asleep on Gladio’s chest, he didn’t make to move. He was not hampered by the embarrassment which had plagued him that day in the library, but instead a pleased acceptance.

He’d fallen asleep quickly. It had to have been almost around sunset when Ignis had pulled Gladio down into his bed. It was late enough in the day that when he blinked back into awareness, the sun was just disappearing, presaging the night in a rhapsody of rose and lavender. He hadn’t had the opportunity yet to pull down his blackout shade and the soft, painterly light flitted across stark walls and onto the bronzed skin of Gladiolus Amicitia, alive and vibrant and near. He looked, for once not worrying over being caught.

“Watching me again?”

“Not for long,” Ignis murmured. “I have to get up. We left the plates on the table. If I don’t hurry to them they’ll need to soak or risk discoloration.”

A soft huff of laughter preceded a tightening of the arm about his waist, a gentle drumming at his ribs. “Only you would be worrying about plates.”

He buried his face at the base of Gladio’s neck, breathing in the scent of him as his voice adopted a sardonic tone, belied by the shape of his lips as they curled into a contented smile.

“This is hardly a laughing matter, Gladiolus. Stains occur due to seepage of moisture through very small cracks in the glaze and…”

Gladio kissed him deeply, his tongue a soft reminder that mouths were good for something other than words or mental gymnastics. When they separated, only a token space existed between them. He found he was comfortable with this. 

“I’ll go clean your damn plates,” Gladio said with fondness, extricating himself from Ignis’s arms. “Just stay down.”

“…that’s not necessary, I can do it.”

The look Gladio fixed on Ignis was the same one he usually offered to Noct, a stern consternation, followed by exasperation. “You don’t stay down sometime you’re gonna have a nervous breakdown. Besides, you made me dinner. The other person is supposed to clean up. It's how this works."

“I think you may be becoming fond of me. You ought to be careful.” 

“'Becoming', he says.” Gladio shook his head, padding towards the door with a light step. “Iggy, I’ve liked you for years.”

As Gladio moved into the other room Ignis blushed just a shade lighter than his crimson coverlet, ducking his head into his pillow and breathing deeply. Though the man was gone, the scent of him lingered on his starched sheets. It surrounded him in a way which was entirely new, but not at all unwanted.

In the other room, Gladio hummed a tune. He was not terribly musical, Ignis noted, even the act of humming slightly discordant, but the sound left him warm all the same. He was entirely at the mercy of a burgeoning devotion. Though Gladio did not stay the night, though Ignis awakened to a cool pillow at his left rather than a warm body, Gladio left fragments of his presence behind. There was a can of Ebony placed on the edge of the bar that bisected the kitchen where there had been none the night before; every plate was cleaned and put back in its proper place. He sighed, contented. He could get used to this.

XXXIII.

“Keep your head up, for fuck's sake!”

Nyx’s voice parted a silence like no other. Their breathing was the only sound as they sparred but for the occasional clash of metal on metal. Ignis leapt, pointing his toes inwards as he spun, jabbing the end of the lance into the yield of softened turf. Nyx dropped his blades, coming to spot at his right, one hand at his lower back, while the other came to rest just below his thighs.

He could feel the motion of his own impetus propelling him backwards. With the aid of the lance, momentum was even easier to obtain. He threw his arms back, using the counter weight of the lance and the safety of Nyx’s hands, which he knew would not let him fall or falter, guide him. He came up and over the blunted point of the lance, landing solidly on both feet.

“Not bad,” Nyx, offered, clapping him on the back. "But if you keep ducking your head like that you’re gonna end up with the wind knocked right out of you. You’ll fall on the pommel.”

Ignis weighed his words with a twist of the neck, as if he was taking the measure of them literally rather than figuratively. “You’re worried over my balance,” Ignis guessed.

“You have to look up, keep your head natural, the position neutral. Your eyes forward. “

Ignis felt a vague sense of amusement flare as he looked at his friend. Nyx was so amicable, almost to the point of seeming laconic, as if whatever he faced was neither worth the words or care beyond the slapdash of a grin. In battle or training his focus became razor sharp and far less forgiving. He was an interesting man, and a good friend.

Nyx shook his head, walking the short distance to where he had stashed carafes of water near the wall. When he returned he offered some to Ignis and took up residence against the nearest pillar, lazing against it.

“You’re nervous,” Nyx continued. “But you’ve got it. Or you would if you weren’t so distracted.”

A sidelong glance alluded to Nyx being able to see something Ignis wasn’t truly ready to admit. It was ludicrous to consider that Nyx might know something had come to pass between himself and Gladio. For the past two weeks they’d both been terribly discreet. Ignis hid his emotions behind a veneer of stoicism that allowed him to appear in perfect control. He had cultivated this image over time and very rarely did he allow it to slip for fear of how it might outwardly appear. All the long nights he’d spent attending to dreams of Gladio had never, in fact, distracted him from his duty in any way. His brow furrowed, worrying about whether he had allowed his happiness to cloud his judgment or his devotion. A boot, landing a solid kick on his shin, drew him back from contemplation.

“Did you just kick me?” he asked, incredulous.

“Are you gonna tell me about it whatever it is, or not?”

Ignis sighed, taking time to sip at his water and weigh his options. In truth, there was nothing _to_ conceal. He and Gladio had made the choice to be committed to one another, simple enough in practice if not actuality. Neither had explicitly made any moves to change their circumstances, though Ignis reasoned that was sound based on the newness of their relationship. In days that followed, Gladio had never stayed overnight. Ignis reasoned this was because he was often early to rise and that his sister and father would likely notice his absence the following morning. He said nothing of it, again assuming the newness of the relationship fostered a need for personal space. He enjoyed the autonomy but it was difficult not to lend credence to what were traditional roles filled by more traditional couples as he’d come to hear of them. He frowned, giving the situation a further mulling over—only to be kicked again.

“Are you quite through?”

“Are you?”

It wasn’t easy, learning to trust others with information he’d just begun to trust himself. He smiled faintly as he outlined the newness of his relationship with Gladiolus. Once he began, he found it was easy to say what he hadn’t yet given voice to. Speaking with Nyx proved helpful in assuaging his fears, even if he did note the hard lines of a returned smile which suggested something Ignis could not quite parse. The closed off posture and folded arms were somewhat perplexing but Nyx listened intently as Ignis dared to speak aloud small fears and foibles that yet weighed on his mind.

“You could talk yourself out of anything,” Nyx scolded at last. “Even finding someone to care about.”

It was true. Ignis's ability to put forth an argument was what made him a boon to the council, but the acerbity of wit which he called into play when he met with politicians and royalty was curiously absent when dealing with matters of the heart.

“Are you happy?”

Ignis nodded his affirmation, to be rewarded by the sight of the other man shrugging.

“Then enjoy it. Just…” Nyx gestured broadly, wrist flexing to indicate their surroundings, “Don’t overthink it. Just enjoy it for however long it lasts.”

Ignis sighed, contented, if a tad apprehensive. He could acclimatize to the feeling of being just the smallest bit freer with his emotions. It could prove fruitful. He could get used to this.

XXXIV.

“C’mon, you can do it,” Gladio insisted.

Ignis wasn’t entirely sure that he could. Though Gladio was crowded up against the headboard, resting his head upon an upturned palm and naked as the day he was born, and though he was impressive, the words Gladio so desired remained just out of reach.

“Tell me what you want to do to me,” Gladio prodded.

Chagrined, Ignis couldn’t deny the effect Gladio had on him. Though he could touch whenever he liked, their coupling was always an instantaneous catch fire which could be satisfied only by touching himself or touching Gladiolus. Four weeks. It hardly seemed possible to be so captivated, so eager and enthralled anew at each suggestion, and any touch. His cock twitched in his pants, interested despite his growing frustration at being asked to _talk_ out his desires, rather than just get straight to them.

“C’mon, Iggy, foreplay gets you more play.”

He huffed, a halfhearted rolling of his eyes as he pulled away to unbutton his shirt, removing it slowly to reveal pale skin in increments, watching the telltale darkening in Gladio’s eyes unfurl with slow satisfaction.

“You insinuate that I’m unable to get you to play unless I gave into your petty desires.”

As he moved, he was fully aware of being watched. Ignis had grown bolder in the threads of control he took. He used what he could see as affirmation that he was doing something right, whether it was the swell of Gladio’s cock curling towards his stomach, or the movement of his chest as his breath quickened. It was all rough desire and Ignis found he loved it.

“You’re a man of action,“ Ignis suggested. “Surely you’d rather I show you than tell you.”

Ignis laid a hand across Gladio’s knee, sliding it higher up his leg, eyes as naked as Gladio in the intent. A hitch of the larger man’s breath was all Ignis needed to hear, emboldened by sounds as well, bending to leave a trail of kisses at the soft juncture of his thighs, using his free hand to undo his own belt, light fingers fumbling at the buckle.

“Does the touch of my hand not excite you?” he asked. “Or the thought of my mouth? Do you need to hear me speak to you to move you?”

Gladio groaned and Ignis felt a slow satisfaction that he could excel here, as well, though perhaps not in the way Gladio did. There was no quarter he would give, hovering over Gladio’s body, baring warm breath over clenched teeth, teasing his arousal with only softness of his breathing as he exhaled over the largeness of him.

“You gonna tease me, or touch me?”

“Perhaps both, I’ve not yet decided.”

Ignis leaned away, using the shift in his form to answer Gladio, pushing him further back against the headboard as he settled against him, the effect he was having obvious. He slid the lines of their bodies together, moving against him, the dry brush of skin dichotomous from the slickness of their erections, working against one another.

“Are you in need of more words, Gladiolus?”

The rhetorical question stayed unanswered. He slotted their hips together, the slide of his cock over Gladio’s balls answered by a bellow that was just shy of a shout. It was a stunning loveliness to surrender simply to the movement and the power of affecting Gladio this way. Ignis propelled them together with smooth motion, driving Gladio into the softness of his mattress with a second shift of their hips and the firmer pressure of his arousal as it slid against Gladio’s. The feel of Gladio’s flesh so alive against his own was such a strong sensation he nearly moaned, biting it back but only just.

Ingis moved his hips in selfish circles, chasing down his own crescendo, putting himself first as he placed his hands on Gladio’s shoulder, using the angle to writhe against him with quickened thrusts.

“You’re close, aren’t you, just with me against you. Aren’t you, Gladio?”

Gladio's eyes were shut tight, the fringe of his lashes dark even against his tanned skin. His body was bent, a curve of assent which was as compelling as the feeling of him. He bared his throat, so Ignis kissed it, slid one hand over the taut musculature of Gladio's chest that he found so beautiful. Ignis kissed him again, tracing the flutter of his pulse with his tongue until he could feel it in his mouth.

“Fuck, Ignis…”

“Later, if you wish…”

Though the words had just passed his lips, the inkling had been building for a certain amount of time. Of the many things that they had done to each other, their mouths and hands having perfect knowledge of bare skin uninterrupted, they hadn’t yet discussed that most intimate of acts. Flush against him, hips making staccato motions as he sought his completion, it seemed as good a time as any for Ignis to bring it up.

Gladio shuddered beneath him, coming undone with a cry, first. Those familiar amber eyes flew open and he reached to cup Ignis’s face, drawing their lips together to tangle them as inelegantly as their limbs. The kiss was messy but it left them shaking even so, and as Gladio took the initiative back, pulling Ignis into his arms, he moaned softly, painting both their bellies. They clung to each other, their bodies unconsciously rolling towards each other as their spend cooled over their stomachs, the calm surrender of afterglow coming as their breath settled into a more normal rhythm.

“My apologies,” Ignis whispered, setting his head on his shoulder. “I’m not exactly sure I have an affinity for your brand of dirty talk.”

Gladio laughed. “And here I was thinking I finally found something you weren’t good at. You did good.”

Ignis joined in on the laughter, sated and happy. He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, guys, for reading. As always, I know the frequency of updates is sporadic at best, but I’m so pleased ya’ll stay with me. I am susceptible to compliment, and kudos and comments keep me motivated, so, if you’re feeling charitable, drop me a line or two. Also, come talk to me on tumblr @ ofthekingsglaive. 
> 
> Hugest of huge thanks to Chocobo Goddess, who is the most beautiful of betas as well as of people. Also, the last portion of this, the poorly written porn, is entirely Sauronix’s fault.


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